Accidental Evil
by Rachelme177
Summary: Ever thought 'Really? You can perform the most evil magic known to wizardkind accidentally' Then this series of one-shots is for you. HP w/ most key players at some point. CHAPTER 13: THE MAP - you'll understand when you read it.
1. A Lesson in Fractions

PLEASE NOTE: This isn't a story so much as an anthology. Each chapter is a stand-alone unless specified otherwise, but each centers around the concept of evil being performed accidentally. I want to say I've never committed accidental evil, but there was that tater-tot casserole incident when I was first married. We no longer speak of it.

I don't own any of the characters you recognize, and I especially don't own a Horcrux … at least, I don't think I do … but if they can be made accidentally …

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**1. A Lesson in Fractions**  
>(aka, Albus' Mistake, Take One):<p>

"Severus … did you hear me?" asked the concerned voice of his mentor-slash-friend-slash-parole officer, Albus Dumbledore.

Severus had, in fact, heard him just fine. The words Albus had just spoken … _"Harry must die"_ … were circling his brain at breakneck speed. _"Harry must die … Harry must die … Harry must die."_

"Severus?" the voice called out again. He re-opened his eyes, wondering when, exactly, he'd closed them, and looked into Albus' weary face.

Unbidden, a small smile crept across his face. _"Harry must die"_ Then a little gurgle erupted from his throat, which he tried his best to pass off as a cough. _"Harry must die"_

"It is quite a shock, I know," intoned Albus, who had obviously misread his student-slash-colleague-slash-charity case's reaction. "I hardly wanted to believe it myself," he added in a sad, sad voice.

_"Harry must die"_ In a last-ditch attempt to keep his emotions in check, he downed his drink – a very fine Bourbon whiskey he'd gifted to the Headmaster specifically so said Headmaster would have a decent drink to offer him during these lovely little soul-searching, gut-wrenching sessions. Unfortunately, he'd forgotten to consider the extremely high alcoholic content of this particular brand. He could feel the warmth spreading, could feel his heart thawing, and yes, could even feel that giddiness he normally associated with discovering that a Gryffindor has forgotten his homework. _"Harry must die"_

Setting his empty glass on the hideous spindly-legged table next to his seat, he stood. He was a strong man, fully in control of his emotions instead of the other way around, and yet … _"Harry must die" _ … he couldn't hold it in any longer.

It started with a bouncing of his leg. Then he was swinging his hips, back-and-forth in an exaggerated semi-circular motion. His left hand was held in front of his stomach, and his right arm reached above his head, with that hand waving. He continued his hip movements as he began turning around in place. He was even humming, not that he realized this, as caught up in the moment as he was.

"Severus!"

He instantly froze; the tone of that voice could not be ignored. Allowing his right arm to drop, and flattening his feet on the ground he turned his head to the side and looked at Albus. Unfortunately, he'd not yet thought to stand straight, leaving his bum poking out at a most unflattering angle.

"Are you … _dancing?_ … Severus?"

Finally straightening and turning his full body in Albus' direction, he deflated slightly. "Yes Headmaster, I was dancing. I admit, I am a bit out of practice, but surely it wasn't so bad as to be unrecognizable."

"No, no, it was certainly energetic enough," Albus assured him, but he spoke while resting his face on his hand, which as luck would have it perfectly hid his smile. He'd seen better dancing that time a drunken Flitwick decided nice-kitty-pretty-kitty-Mrs. Norris wanted to salsa dance at the After-Yule Staff Party. "But why, pray tell would you be spontaneously dancing at a time like this. I've just told you that Harry must die."

"Precisely, Headmaster. The little brat is going to die. I must be in practice so I can dance on his grave."

With a put-out sigh Albus continued, "Have you forgotten, Severus, how very likely it is that you shall also die in this war?"

Snape scoffed at this idea. "Not bloody likely, not now that I have something to live for."

"But don't you even want to know why Harry must die?"

"Not particularly," he added with a dismissive wave of his hand as he retook his seat. "Honestly, Albus, you had me at 'Harry must die'."

"Horcruxes, Severus," Albus said, knowing that was enough of an explanation.

It was a good thing he was sitting, otherwise such a statement might have made him faint. Always quick on the uptake, Snape had already processed the implications of Albus' use of the plural. Needing a good, stiff drink, he picked up his glass and downed its contents in one go. Or at least, tried to, until he remembered – two seconds after he'd upended the empty glass over his open mouth – that he'd already done that.

Setting the offensive glass down again, he looked over to see the Headmaster twinkling at him as he directed the Bourbon bottle toward him. Grabbing it out of the air by its neck, Severus rested it on his leg. "Horcruxes, you say? He was even madder than I'd given him credit for. I assume this means" _(don't smile, don't smile, don't smile) _"Potter must die" _(DO NOT SMILE)_ "because he is a Horcrux." _(There – didn't smile!)_ "How is that even possible? I mean, hasn't the Dark Lord been trying to kill the boy? Why would he try to kill his own Horcrux?"

Far too calmly in Severus' opinion, given the man's proclaimed love for the boy, Albus explained his wonderfully brilliant theory about split souls and accidental magic, and Severus could feel the blood draining from his face. His happy dance suddenly felt like it had been a lifetime ago.

"But … but …," he sputtered, not believing such a (admittedly self-proclaimed) brilliant man could make such a colossal mistake. "Surely you know better than to think Potter was the only Horcrux made that night."

"Whatever do you mean? He killed Lily, then he tried to kill Harry. It couldn't be more simple … or is it simpler?"

"You're more simple, you dimwit." Oh, Severus was definitely in a snit if he was calling the Headmaster names. "He hadn't just killed Lily … he'd killed James, too. That means two pieces of shredded soul, not one. And that's being conservative."

Albus' own face was now the same shade of white as his beard. "Conservative?" he managed to whimper.

"When had he last made a Horcrux – while he was still building his power? And how many had he killed since beginning his war, hmm? By the time he attacked the Potters, he'd personally killed dozens. Oh, plenty of wizards and witches considered mudbloods, blood traitors and half breeds. But also the near recruit who rather stupidly asked how he could smell people's fear without a nose … the Muggle teen who asked if anything else had fallen off, and then pointed to his privates, and _then_ called him 'Madam' … and who can forget the waitress that brought decaf and tried to pass if off as regular – but the Dark Lord always knows – and she was dead before the pot hit the floor. And those are just the ones I can think of off the top of my head."

Tapping his lengthy index finger on the side of his whiskey bottle, he continued as if he was lecturing a class of particularly slow students. "His soul wasn't split – it was fractured. If your theory is correct, and each separate piece of his soul was set free upon his body's destruction, then there are two possibilities. First, they all went into Potter, which I think we can immediately eliminate as possible given his noticeable lack of pure evilness and blind ambition. Vile little miscreant he may be, but even I can acknowledge he doesn't have what it takes for world domination. Not to mention, he still has his nose. No … the little stray pieces of soul, the 'soul sperm' if you will, went into separate items."

Albus slumped into his chair as Severus rattled on, clearly on a roll now. "Assuming that your assertion is correct that the soul sperm would prefer a living host, one must ask, did the Potters have any pets? And if so, what was their fate?"

"There was only a goldfish," Albus recalled. "Hagrid took it. He accidentally killed it when it jumped out of its bowl and tried to bit his finger."

Severus upped his glare to full strength. Honestly, it was like talking to Potter. Or worse, Weasley. "And that didn't seem the least bit suspicious to you?"

"Well, at the time, I rather thought Hagrid had been … playing with his umbrella again. He does like his pets, you know."

"Very well," Severus replied, "so thank Hagrid for ridding the world of a fraction of the Dark Lord's soul. But if that was the only living host, then the soul sperm –"

"Would you please stop calling it that, Severus," Albus implored. "That makes it sound so…"

"Tawdry? Clinical? Would you prefer I call them something cute and fluffy, like 'bunnies'?" Not waiting for an answer, he continued, "To continue, the _soul sperm_ would have attached themselves to the nearest inanimate objects, those obviously being the furniture and other assorted objects in the room. Would you happen to know, Headcase, what happened to the Potters' possessions?"

"Ah, well, you see … I was too busy with various end-of-war events to sort through everything at the time, so I hired one of those Muggle storage houses, and placed everything in safekeeping. Unfortunately, when I forgot to pay the bill one year … they sold everything."

"You mean to tell me that pieces of the Dark Lord's soul were sold off in a Muggle yard sale?"

At the slow, somber nod of Albus' head, Snape tightened his grasp on his bottle of Bourbon, and bringing it to his lips, downed about a third of the bottle in a series of gulps.

That clinched it. Dropping the bottle carelessly onto the floor, he abruptly stood. "You'll have to pardon me, Albus. I just remembered I left a student boiling – I mean, I left a student with a boiling potion, yes that's it, a boiling, highly volatile potion. I really must go check on it-him. It will probably take a few hours, so you shouldn't be concerned if you can't find me later. I'll just be down in my dungeon hideaway with a student and his highly volatile potion, and not running to the highly immortal Dark Lord to beg forgiveness and pledge undying loyalty. Must be running …"

As the door slammed shut behind the retreating Potions Master, Albus muttered to himself about how refreshing it was to see Severus care so for the well being of his students. Around him, the portraits of the past Heads of the school rolled their eyes. Finally, Fortescue was brave enough to speak up.

"Ah, Albus … I don't really think he's checking on any potion. Perhaps I'd best explain …"

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_**Two months later**_

A young mother carried her crying baby into the sitting room. Her precious angel was hungry again – weren't newborns always hungry – and she'd found it passed the time faster if she sat down to watch the telly while little Angelica fed. Well, that and she was a bit freaked out by the baby's clothes dresser.

When the couple from downstairs had given it to them, she'd been so happy to save the money it would have cost to buy one that she'd never questioned why people who'd never been particularly nice to her in the past was being so generous. No, she'd simply thanked the couple and taken the furniture.

It had been a dull pine; the tiny lion's-head-shaped pulls its only appealing quality. There were even singe marks on the legs, as if it had been caught in a blast or fire of some kind. So her husband had removed the hardware and sanded the wood, and because they knew they were expecting a girl, he'd painted it a bright pink and decorated it with yellow, orange, green, and blue butterflies, complete with glittery wings and happy smiley faces.

The problem was, when the room was dark, and the moonlight crept across the floor and stretched to the dresser, and she was sitting nearby holding her little one, she would swear she could hear the thing growling. Her husband had just laughed, writing it off to first-time parent jitters. But she wondered …

At about 2am, there really wasn't much of a choice on the telly. She flipped past the all-night news (too depressing) and a rerun of Masterpiece Theater (too boring) and the music video channel which hardly ever even showed videos any more, and finally settled on an old episode of Dr. Who. Which ended three minutes later, but by then the babe was comfortably using her arm as a pillow, and so she just let the next show come on. it was an infomercial, so she shifted her attention to her sweet little girl.

"Do you have furniture that groans?" a voice asked, drawing her attention from the way the baby's nose wrinkled back to the telly. There, on the screen, were two men and a woman, all dressed in weird jumpsuits in bright red with gold trim that looked like gaudy versions of army pilots' suits. The one in the middle – the one doing the speaking – looked like he'd past his prime years ago and was slowly coasting downhill. He had frazzled hair long enough that he'd had to pull it back, with a matching beard down to his waist. Behind his old-school half-moon glasses were very tired but still friendly eyes, and right now he was asking her if her lamp ever threw temper tantrums.

The tall, good looking black man to his left asked if friends and relatives had laughed off her concerns. He assured her that they would believe.

The third person, a lady who reminded her more of an old-fashioned School Marm than a – well, she wasn't really sure what they were – but the woman said they specialized in aged items, which she clarified as those items made before 1982.

With a wink and a smile, the hippy-Santa announced, "We're the Furniture Whisperers, and we can help. Contact us today."

She almost laughed at the seriousness in his voice, for this had to be some kind of joke. Maybe a new Monty Python type show. She almost dismissed it entirely, when she heard a faint growl coming from Angelica's room, followed by the sound of wood scrapping on wood. Impulsively, she picked up her phone.

Across the country, an old squib by the name of Arabella Figg hung up the phone, and went to her fireplace to shout, "We got one!"

****end chapter****

**Notes:** I tried to do this seriously, really I did, because the basic premise of the story – that when Voldemort's body was destroyed, logic dictates that there were at a minimum two soul shards (or as Snape calls them, soul sperm) and therefore _at least two_ Horcruxes created. Accidentally, of course. After all, Tom had just killed not one, but two people; and _every_ murder splinters the soul, not just a select few.

Unfortunately, Snape started dancing his jig, and it just went downhill from there.

Also, my apologies to Dr. Venkman – but at least I didn't steal the StayPuft Marshmallow Man. As far as I know, he didn't franchise, so I'm cool.

As for other 'chapters'; the idea for this anthology popped into my head and simply would not leave me alone until I typed it out. I have four more chapters outlined, and ideas for another three or four, so expect more in the future. Whether that's a promise or a threat, I leave up to you to decide. Just don't expect any of them to be serious works of literature either.


	2. Between Friends

I wondered … there are two parts to making a Horcrux: (1) kill and (2) move a piece of your soul. If the second part can be done accidentally, why not the first part? {_rhetorical question, don't bother answering_}

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**Between Friends**

There was an insistent banging on his door, but Ron Weasley was too busy inhaling the tart his girlfriend Hermione Granger specifically told him not to eat to get up and answer it. "Common Enn," he shouted, nearly chocking on a piece of apple for the effort.

A confident twenty-two year old Harry Potter let himself in, instantly spying his best friend hunched over an empty plate, crumbs falling from said friend's mouth and decorating the sofa he was sitting on.

"Hermione told you not to eat that, didn't she?" he asked, knowing instantly he'd hit the nail on the head by the way Ron's face turned red, and the way he wouldn't look Harry's direction, even as he loudly insisted she'd said no such thing.

"What brings you by," Ron asked as he banished the crumbs. As an after thought, he made the plate disappear too. Best to not leave any evidence.

"I can't visit my best mate?" Harry indignantly asked.

"It's Sunday afternoon. You're supposed to be at Ginny's match against Puddlemere. You never miss the chance to cheer as Wood loses. So what's up?"

"Oh, game got delayed, so I thought I'd drop by and give you your Thanksgiving gift," he casually – too casually, Ron thought – explained as he held out a small square box, poorly wrapped in silver paper decorated with tiny purple Knight Buses, a pink ribbon wrapped around and knotted in a scraggly bow on the top.

"Mate, that's an American thing," he said, eyeing up the box suspiciously.

Shrugging, Harry explained, "the way I see it, they were still part of the King's realm when they had their first little dinner party, so technically that makes it a British holiday."

Ron didn't make a move.

"Honestly, it's perfectly safe," Harry tried to assure him. "George never touched it, if that's what you're worried about." He gave the box, which he was still holding out, a little shake, which to Ron was like a Siren singing 'open me Ron … I'm the most wonderful gift on the planet'.

With an exaggerated sigh Ron reached for the box, which Harry had known he would do. Really, there was something about wrapping paper that hypnotized Ron; like Pavlov's dog salivating, Ron could always be counted on to open a wrapped gift, even if it wasn't meant for him, if it was given a little shake. He could watch you put a dead rat inside a box, and watch you wrap the box in old newspaper with a bow made out of twine, and when you held it out and gave it a little shake, he would still snatch it up and rip off the paper as if it might contain gold, or an assortment of his favorite foods, or his own invisibility cloak … anything other than a dead rat.

Pulling his newest possession from its box, a disappointed Ron announced, "It's a mug." It was indeed a mug.

One of those annoyingly over-sized ceramic coffee mugs, to be precise, in an ugly shade of light brown with the words 'World's Best Dad' spelled out in large puffy red letters across its front. A cartoon Dad stood proudly next to his cartoon son, each holding a fishing pole, and each wearing grins that were actually a bit on the creepy side.

"I'm not a Dad," Ron unnecessarily added.

Dropping into a nearby chair, Harry smirked. "There's always hope there. According to Bill, all it takes is a bottle of wine and a jar of baby oil."

Choosing to ignore that comment, Ron twisted the mug around in his hand. "It's chipped," he observed with a frown.

"It's antiqued," Harry clarified, "and a priceless magical relic besides."

"It says 'made in Taiwan' on the bottom."

Harry only shrugged in reply.

With a sinking feeling, Ron looked to his friend and implored, "Harry … tell me you didn't do it again."

"It was an accident," he quickly said – as if that explained everything.

"It always is," an exasperated Ron replied. "What was it this time – do I even want to know?"

"Well," Harry began, looking and sounding remarkably like little Teddy did every time he tried to explain that he hadn't stolen that wand, he'd found it, and he wasn't necessarily trying to turn his grandma's hair pink so much as make it look more like his. "You remember how I found all those old photos of the Evan family in my vault? Well yesterday, I went to Petunia and Vernon's, to give 'em copies, ya know?"

"How could I forget? Hermione spent five hours helping you pick out just the right outfit."

"I wanted something that said 'bask in my success' and 'I don't care what you think of me' at the same time," Harry explained. "You think that's easy to pull off?"

Instead of answering the question, Ron pouted, "She was supposed to take me to that new all-you-can-eat place that opened in Hogsmeade."

"I said I was sorry," Harry tried to reason. "How was I supposed to know she'd want to go all over London looking for the right shade of green."

But Ron hadn't heard that bit, he was still waxing nostalgic about his lost opportunity. "They say they have Shepard's Pie and Bacon Roly-Poly and Yorkshire Pudding and…"

"I didn't even know there was a wrong shade of green. She said everything I had was either too dark or too light or too blue…"

"… three kinds of bangers – even Mum never makes three kinds of bangers …"

"… I mean, it's green. How can it be too blue when it's green? …"

"… and the puddings … there's spotted dick and trifle and more kinds of tarts than you can shake your wand at …" Ron continued, his eyes glazing over.

"… one-hundred sixty pounds for a shirt! My wand cost less than that … and it's a _magic wand_. And after what happened, I can't even wear the blasted thing again. That much blood never comes out."

"… and warm yummy crumbles … wait, what blood?"

When Harry didn't respond – he was still rather caught up in his wasted galleons – Ron snapped his fingers and repeated the question.

"From Marge obviously," he finally said. "You don't think someone can get stabbed in the throat and not bleed, so you?"

"You stabbed your Aunt Marge in the throat," Ron squeaked, his voice going up much higher than his manhood normally allowed.

"Don't be daft; she's not my aunt," he was quick to correct. As an afterthought, he added, "and I didn't stab her. Technically."

"Then what did you do … technically," Ron asked as he swung his mug around on his thumb.

"Nothing really – and careful with that!" – Ron stopped his twirling – "It was going alright, actually. Vernon only called me a freak twice, and Petunia almost said my Mum's name. Then Marge shows up. Next thing I know, she's coming at me swinging her handbag, shouting about how I scarred her precious Duddikins delicate psyche back who knows when. I was trying to move out of her reach when I tripped on her stupid dog and fell sideways. Somehow, my head banged into the hanging pots, which made one fall, and it landed on the handle of a knife, which flipped into the air and lodged itself into her throat."

"And you got blood all over your shirt by helping her," Ron finished.

"What? No, not at all. I was just standing there … er, shock and all … when the bleeding harpy grabs the knife and pulls it out – which it turns out was the wrong thing to do, by the way – and starts staggering around. I think she was moving toward Petunia, as if _she_ would risk blood on her dress to help, when she trips over her dog and bumps into the counter top, knocking that mug onto the floor. Then she lands right by my feet. I must have summoned the mug just as she expired, and … well, there you go."

"So you killed Marge?"

"Weren't you listening? It was an accident." Noticing the doubting look on Ron's face, he jumped up and defended himself. "Look, the fact that it happened exactly as I'd predicted on my Divination homework that one time is completely coincidental."

"Right. And what exactly am I supposed to do with this lovely piece of your soul," Ron asked, waving the mug in the air in front of him. "It's not like I'm gonna want to drink out of this thing."

"Come on," Harry whined. "You've got to help me. Ginny's gonna kill me if she finds out I did it again. Well … she'll try," he added with grin. "You really want your best mate to end up as a body-less spirit? Try explaining that one to your Mum." Seeing that Ron was close to caving (he was probably picturing him Mum ranting on about poor Harry being treated so unfairly by all the people with bodies, and somehow it would all be Ron's fault), Harry went in for the kill. "Besides, you owe me for destroying those pictures Charlie took of you dancing with Mrs. Norris at Flitwick's annual Voldie's Smoked Barbeque."

Ron stood, pacing around his small but tastefully-decorated-in-just-the-right-shade-of-red (not too yellow and not too orange) sitting area, muttering under his breath about too much firewhisky and professors of questionable sexual orientation and oh-so-dead brothers.

The loud cawing of Ron's tacky coo-coo clock (definitely too orange) reminded Harry that he needed to hurry this along; Ginny would know if he missed the start of the game. And if he missed the start of her game, he wouldn't get to play Chasers & Beaters tonight. "Can't you just put it with the others? It should be safe enough."

"But Hermione – "

"Never needs to know. She never looks in your Special Drawer. Please Ron … I'm begging you."

Giving his best mate – the guy he considered his black-haired brother; that is, if his very-pregnant mother had had an affair with James Potter and then somehow managed to carry two babies by two different fathers for a stretch before giving birth at two different times, all without her own husband being any the wiser (_after a bored Ron had read Fleur's copy of 'How to Conceive Without Really Trying', Hermione learned to never ask him what he was thinking about_) – a calculating look, he finally agreed. "Fine, but you have to take me for dinner at the all-you-can-eat place. Twice."

"Deal," Harry agreed, and not giving Ron the chance to change his mind, he pushed him toward the bedroom, which was done in shades of blue and brown that were, surprisingly enough, neither too yellow nor too red. Moving to the far side of the bed, Ron pulled open the drawer of the bedside table and dropped the mug in.

Harry, strictly to feel reassured that his shattered soul was well cared for, and not at all because he was curious what made Ron's drawer special, watched over his friend's shoulder. Unbeknownst to Ron, he and Ginny made a game out of guessing what it might contain; Harry thought it held Chudley Cannon action figures with little enchanted quaffles and a Mighty Hoops play-set while Ginny was convinced it contained sex toys that George had given Ron, but that Ron didn't know how to use and was too embarrassed to ask Hermione about. (_Ginny, too, was rarely asked what she was thinking about._) Watching as the drawer pulled open, his eyes fell on … a half eaten ham sandwich? And was that a pickled egg? But then something else in the drawer – half hidden behind a cup of custard – caught his eye.

"Is that … is that the rubber duck I got your Dad for his birthday?"

"What? Oh … could be," Ron shrugged. "Ginny brought it over a couple days after Percy died in that freak accident."

Harry shuddered as he remembered that day. "Impaled by a racing broom because you stumbled into its path while suffocating on your own bogies – not the way I wanna go. Ginny took it real hard," he added, trying to keep his emotions in check. Remembering Percy's death … the way his eyes had bugged out as the out-of-control broom flew toward him … the strange hissing sound he'd made as he'd tried to call for help, which had translated into some interesting suggestions in parseltongue … the strong scent of urine that had saturated his clothes … it always brought tears to Harry's eyes – usually caused by the pain of biting his tongue to keep from laughing. It had, after all, been very funny … sad, yes … but in a funny way.

Snapping back to the present, he added, "They'd been arguing just before it happened. The last thing he ever said to her was to call her a 'silly little girl'. Next thing anybody knows, he's got his hands at his throat and he's turning blue. Too bad we all thought it was just one of the twins Color-Me Caramels …"

Harry stopped speaking when he realized that Ron wasn't looking at him any more. In fact, he was studying his navy blue and chocolate brown striped bedspread as if it were a girly magazine. (Or – if his Special Drawer was any indication – a leg of lamb.) He was also humming, and he only hummed when he was nervous…

"Ron, maybe you'd best tell me what other things Ginny's got in that drawer."

**** end chapter ****

**Notes:** I love Ron. But it had to be him Harry ran too; Hermione would have just been sensible and destroyed the mug. She probably keeps basilisk venom around for just such an emergency.

Next chapter features Horcrux Harry and shows another miscalculation on Albus' part. Sorry, no Snape, but there will be a half-naked Lucius Malfoy. Takes place after Snape becomes snake-kibble (which explains why he's not in it) and Harry decides to take a little stroll into the forest.


	3. Jiminy Cricket's Evil Twin

We know that Tom's other Horcruxes had defense mechanisms that protected them. So I thought, what if the one inside Harry triggered a sense of self-preservation that overrode Harry's 'saving people thing'? Because really, Albus risked an awful lot on the assumption that Harry would just merrily skip off to his death.

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**3. Jiminy Cricket's Evil Twin**

_(aka Albus' mistake, take two)_

Having dropped the Resurrection Stone – he loved them all, really he did, but he didn't think he could take any more of their pep talk – our stalwartly hero stepped into the clearing. All talk ceased as one by one the Death Eaters took notice, and they parted like the Red Sea for Moses so their Lord could see the newest arrival. At the far end of the clearing his arch nemesis grinned, and seeing the sight innocent little birds dropped to the ground frozen in terror.

"Welcome, Harry Potter."

That voice – that condescending tone oozing with fake politeness – made him want to grab his wand after all and give it his best shot. Instead, he took a deep breath to calm himself. Then, figuring he was going to die anyway, our rebellious hero nodded his head in greeting as he cheekily replied, "Tom."

"I knew you'd come. You couldn't resist, could you? Handing yourself over for certain death in the pitiful hope that you might save your friends' lives – a boy hero such as yourself lives for moments like this." He paused for dramatic effect, then chuckled loudly as he continued, "did you really expect me to keep my word? Me? Surely you know me better than that, Harry?"

Harry didn't respond; staying calm was bound to rile the babbling idiot far more than anything he could think to say.

"Before you go ... shall I tell you my great plan, Harry? Shall I let you know what fate awaits your classmates? Those blood traitors and mudbloods you love so much? It's simple, really. But first, let me tell you how I convinced the werewolves to join me. It all started …"

With an exasperated sigh, and slight shake of his head, Harry tuned him out. He didn't care what Voldemort had promised the werewolves. And he certainly didn't need to know what Voldemort had planned for his friends, because it wasn't going to happen anyway. Once he was dead, they would kill the snake and Voldemort would be mortal again. Then someone would kill him, and they'd be the hero! Probably without the nifty scar to show for it, he bitterly thought. Then Ron and Hermione could get married and spend their lives arguing over when to have sex, and Ginny … well, she'd probably never get over him, and she'd spend the rest of her life depressed and alone.

"… giants eat trolls, as you well know, so it was laughably easy …"

What if, Ginny aside, everyone else moved on with their lives and forgot all about him? He'd be just a footnote in some history books. Not even mentioned by name, just by that hated title, The Boy Who Lived – Until He Died. He didn't have any heirs … and he'd never gotten around to writing a will … who would get all his money? Maybe the Ministry would take it – or worse, it would be given to his only relatives, the dratted Dursleys.

'_Maybe this wasn't such a great idea.'_

What was he thinking, the tiny voice in the back of his mind continued, letting his dead parents and their dead friends tell him how great death was? Of course they'd tell him that; they were _dead_. What were they going to say … 'death sucks Harry, so stay alive as long as possible'? Only an idiot wanted to die, the voice continued, especially when he has so much going for him.

Indeed he did. His vault was filled with gold just begging to be wasted on trendy clothes and expensive trinkets … he'd just renewed his subscription to Which Broomstick (_buy four years and get the fifth year free!_) … he planned to seduce Ginny Weasley and Susan Bones into sleeping with him – hopefully at the same time. And now, because of some totally irrational decision, one which he was starting to suspect was spell-induced – a little going away gift from Snake-Food-Snape, if you will – he wouldn't get to enjoy any of that.

"... twenty-two minutes of Cruciatus, he never repeated that 'there castle' joke in my presence again ..."

Unfortunately, a dozen or so Death Eaters and one noseless freak made it pretty difficult to back out now. So, alright, he'd agreed to die and apparently he was stuck with it; but he hadn't signed up for verbal torture first. Glancing over, he could tell the other was still rambling on ... "and only I could figure it out with my superior intellect-"

"Look," our frustrated hero cut in, in typical teenage rudeness, "can we just get on with it already?"

"Manners, Harry," Voldemort scolded. "How disappointed Albus would be. He groomed you to face death like a man. Real men respect their elders, Harry, and _your _elder is speaking, so hush up and pay attention. Now, where was I? Oh yes … with my superior intellect … "

Closing his eyes, our exasperated hero leaned back against the nearest tree, his mind continuing to spin. How long had Dumbledore known? Had the man been plotting Harry's death since he'd so _kindly_ visited the Dursleys before Sixth Year? Since he'd given Harry the prophecy? Since the tournament? _'Perhaps he'd always known.'_

And now, no thanks to the meddling old fool, he was stuck here waiting to be killed. That's right … waiting. Snape might have been willing to end Dumbledore's misery, but Voldemort didn't have a compassionate bone in his body. Except maybe the one he'd stolen from his father, but that probably didn't count.

"… could a werewolf mate with a nundu, I wondered? Fenrir, it turns out, was disturbingly eager to test that theory …"

Dumbledore, he concluded, had died too easily. He deserved to have still been alive when he went over that turret. Mauled while hand feeding lemon sherberts to nestling dragons; that would have been a fitting death for Albus Dumbledore. Getting his eyes gouged out by an angry Mrs. Norris as they danced under the mistletoe - if the ensuing infection didn't kill him, Filch no doubt would have. Forced to drink 18 cups of Turkish coffee then sit through an all-weekend History of Magic class; the old man would've killed himself just to escape that torture. Or how about Dumbledore, one of Dobby's knitted hats, and a plastic spoon against a basilisk …

Unnoticed by either our heroic hero or Soliloquy Sam, the Death Eaters had also long since stopped listening to the speech. They'd also stopped pointing their wands menacingly at Harry. If our hero's eyes had been open, he might have realized he could, in fact, make a run for it. Or a walk for it. For terrorists, their current actions were rather light in the terror department.

Across from Harry's tree a few of the younger men were debating the appropriateness of hiring Muggle strippers for tonight's after-party. Father Crabbe was sitting on the ground watching Narcissa Malfoy's every move with his hands deep in his robes in a most suspicious manner. For her part, the lady Malfoy had joined a group that was playing strip gobstones. She was winning, much to everyone's disappointment; and she was a sore winner, questioning the manhood of her opponents every time she took a round. Oddly, her own husband, who was now shoeless and naked from the waist up, was the recipient of her most vicious comments.

Bellatrix Lestrange wasn't playing; most doubted she could handle the math involved. She was probably the only one in the clearing still listening to Voldemort. Currently, she was sitting at her Master's feet, staring up at him with a look that was half '_that's the most fascinating thing I've ever heard and I don't even understand what you're saying'_, half _'I love you'_, and half _'did I remember to put on clean knickers this morning?'_

A loud noise, which our dozing hero mistook for the mating grunt of the graphorn, captured everyone's attention. Harry's eyes slit open, the gobstone players hastily dropped their cards (and in some cases, tried to hide their state of undress), Bellatrix drooled on Voldemort's sandal, and Crabbe moaned.

The Dark Lord cleared his throat again, louder this time. Seeing Harry's eyes open, he called out, "I said … this is goodbye, Harry Potter." To emphasize his point, he aimed his wand at Harry's head.

"Oh, right …right," Harry replied as he stifled a yawn. Then, in an exaggerated move, he pushed himself away from the tree and stepped toward the middle of the clearing. Thus positioned, he gave his last words. "My only regret is that I won't live to see your death … well, that and I'm still a virgin … and I'd've kinda liked to visit Sweden, it just sounds like such a cheerful place, ya know … and I've never tried firewhisky, which is odd when you think about it. I mean, what teenager doesn't sneak alcohol? And I wish that time Hermione and I—"

Green light impacted with his forehead, leaving everyone to wonder what he and Hermione had once done as his body fell backwards. Perhaps it was the fact that they'd all expected Potter to die … perhaps it was that they believed their lord invincible … perhaps they just didn't like to look at his creepy face … whatever the reason, only one of his followers had been paying attention to him, so only she noticed when their master toppled along with the boy. And that was mainly because he fell on top of her.

For eighteen seconds, everyone in the clearing appeared frozen – but to be fair, our horizontal hero only did so because he was mostly dead.

As Voldemort stood and shook the dirt off his robes, Purgatory Harry was busy tuning out the voice of his former Headmaster (who he really _did not_ want to talk to just now) so he could concentrate on the hypnotic hissing coming from somewhere on the ground ... As Lucius Malfoy crossed his arms over his bare chest in an attempt to stay warm, Nearly Lifeless Harry listened – and couldn't help but agree – as the voice explained that Dumbledore didn't have his best interests in mind ... As Bellatrix used the excuse of cleaning her master's sandals to lick his toes, Waking Harry struggled to rouse himself, noticing neither Dumbledore's shouted warnings nor the cute little monster that grabbed onto his leg as he did so.

Blinking, our revived hero woke just as Voldemort commanded, "Check him Narcissa. Make certain he lives no longer."

Narcissa began to bend down to check for a pulse when Harry's coughing saved her the trouble. As she backed away, he slowly climbed to his feet.

Voldemort watched in disbelief. He looked at the wand hanging limply in his hand, and gave it a shake. Randomly choosing a target, he hissed, "Sectumsempra," and Crabbe Senior joined his son in the great Death Eater afterlife (known to all others as hell) as his head rolled away from his body. Confident his wand was working properly, he took aim at our wobbly hero and shouted "Avada Kedavra" while flourishing his wand extravagantly.

This time, Comatose Harry arrived at an empty King's Cross, Dumbledore having left after their last encounter. There was a red muppet-like creature hugging his leg and hissing at him to wake up.

"Ow," he groaned as he once again climbed to his feet.

"Impossible," Voldemort muttered to himself. Pointing his wand at Lucius Malfoy, who he'd just noticed wasn't wearing a robe or a shirt – did the man have no respect? "Avada Kedavra," he yelled again, but this time, he paid close attention to make certain his wand movement was correct.

Narcissa Malfoy gasped as her husband fell to the ground, most obviously dead, before sending a private smile to Yaxley.

Slowly and precisely, he aimed at the boy who was now swaying slightly, and he carefully pronounced, "Avada Kedavra."

After a fleeting glimpse of King's Cross Station, where he'd happily embraced the hissing little muppet-monster, Harry opened his eyes to find himself lying on the forest floor again. He got up slowly, muttering something about barmy headmasters whose brains were rotted by too much candy.

"How are you doing that?" Voldemort shrieked, sounding remarkable like Molly Weasley, not that Harry would be pointing that out.

Standing with his hands on his knees, clearly out of breath from resurrecting too many times without rest in between, our worn-out hero whined, "well, I certainly don't know. You think I'd have strolled in here and surrendered myself if I'd known this was going to happen? Maybe it has something to do with the weird voice that keeps telling me to come back. Maybe when you used my blood to make your new body, you somehow tied our life forces together so that I can't die as long as you're still alive. Or maybe neither can live while the other survives –no wait … scratch that last one. I've got it … maybe when gave me this scar you gave me a bit more than just a scar, if you get my meaning. That's what Dumbledore thought, anyway … 'course he also thought shoes that buckle were a good fashion choice."

Wide eyed – for he'd never considered any of those possibilities – Voldemort cleared his throat. "Right. Good to know. Soooo … now that I've proved that there's no point in trying to kill each other –"

"Oh, is that what he was doing? I thought he was just failing at killing the kid," mumbled a young Death Eater who was wearing an 'I love mudbloods, they taste like chicken' t-shirt instead of robes. Unfortunately for him, Voldemort's snake-like sense of hearing, er, sensing allowed him to catch the remark, and he proved he still mastered the killing curse.

Pointing at the dead body, he announced, "Let that be a lesson to never question me. Now, Potter … Harry … what do you say? Care to reconsider my offer from years ago and join me?

Considering everything he'd been through since Snape's timely death, our peeved hero realized he had two options. One: follow Dumbledore's plan and sacrifice himself for the greater good by suggesting Voldemort cut off his head – that always worked on zombies, right?; or two, he could listen to what that tiny voice in the back of his mind has been screaming for the last twenty minutes, and screw everyone else and save himself. If he chooses the former, his friends can live long happy lives … without him. But if he chooses the latter, he might get that chance with Ginny and Susan … "Alright … I'll do it. I'll join you."

A tiny presence in the back of his brain purred. It had succeeded in protecting itself. And while the boy wasted his time trying to seduce school girls, it would be plotting to overthrow that overgrown soul donor and take over for itself.

Voldemort, unaware of the twinkle that was starting to form in Harry's eyes, pressed on. "You'll be my right hand man, then? I seem to find myself short one." As he said this he casually pointed toward the beautiful but oh-so-dead corpse of Lucius Malfoy.

"Yeah … whatever," Harry agreed distractedly. He'd just noticed the Widow Malfoy and Yaxley seemed to be playing Name That Body Part.

"Master," whined a voice from behind Voldemort, and both looked to see Bellatrix kneeling with her hands clasped together as if in prayer.

"Ah yes … and take Bella here as your mate, and give her children to be raised in my image?"

"And make me his sex slave, Master," she reminded.

"Yes, yes … and the whole sex slave thing," Voldemort added in a bored voice.

Harry had the impression they'd had that discussion a time or two before. "Look," he sighed, "if it gets you to stop killing me, I'll do it. And when I find the bastard that said the Killing Curse was painless, I'm gonna kick his scrawny arse," he added as he rotated his left arm.

"And tie me up? You have to be willing to tie me up," Bellatrix eagerly shouted, looking like Ron on Christmas morning.

"Oh, don't worry, I was never opposed to that."

**.**

Several weeks later, in his opulent chambers formerly known as the Headmaster's Chambers – which technically was still true, as Voldemort had generously named him Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Magic and Mayhem – Harry returned to his bedroom to find a scantily clad Bella waiting in his bed.

"Want to play Dungeons and Dragons," she coyly asked.

"I think you mean Mudblood and Master … Dungeons and Dragons is a Muggle game," Harry corrected, trying his best to ignore the hag.

"Yes, Master. Tie me up?" Without waiting for a response, she leaned back and reached for the bedposts.

Happy to oblige, Harry flicked his wand and thick polyester ropes wound themselves around her wrists. He watched as she checked the tightness of the knots, and when he was certain she wasn't getting away, he turned away from her and checked himself in a mirror. Happy with what he saw, he wrapped a scarf around his neck and tussled his hair. "Looking spiffy," the mirror quipped, his reflected self giving him a thumbs-up.

Satisfied, he went to the door, but paused before leaving. "Make yourself comfy," he said, chuckling at his own joke, "I'm going out, and I'll probably be gone for a while. Narcissa just informed me that Tonks' weekly interrogation is finished, so we thought we'd pop in and see if she's up for a game of strip gobstones. It's never the same game twice with her, if you know what I mean."

"But – but, " Bella sputtered, "you just tied me up. You promised our lord you would tie me up and have sex with me."

"No," he corrected her, "I promised to have sex with you and tie you up, I never said I would do them at the same time. I'll get around to the other eventually."

Closing the door on the cursing witch, he made a mental note to invite Ginny to next weeks game. And Susan Bones. And maybe even Daphne Greengrass.

Deep in our tainted hero's mind, his inner snake was content.

**** end chapter ****

**Notes:** Is it just me, or could that have really happened? Not the strip gobstones; the part where the horcrux hitched a ride back to the land of the living. I mean, the diary was purposely draining Ginny's life so it could survive ... shouldn't the one in Harry have put up some sort of fight, instead of sitting around crying. And why did 'it' look like a freaky muppet, when the one from the diary looked human? Hmm...


	4. Evil by Any Other Name

There's no Horcrux in this story – but other accidental magic can be evil, can't it?

**.**

**.**

**Four. Evil By Any Other Name**

_Harry, having defeated Voldemort in a way of your choosing, married his sweetheart Ginny and took the job of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Our story picks up at the end of class (Hufflepuff and Gryffindor, Third Years)._

_._

Class was finally over, and Harry had the unruly mound of rolled parchments to prove it. Didn't these dunderheads – _thanks for adding that word to my vocabulary, Snape_ – know how to flatten their parchment before turning it in? With a sigh, he dropped his textbook onto his desk and watched as it caused several of the assignments to roll onto the floor.

Pulling his wand to summon the offending papers, he pivoted sideways and nearly stuck his wand into the ear of one Wendell Kendell. He shouldn't have been surprised to find the boy standing there. Wendell seldom grasped the lessons and often stayed behind with questions or to get additional reading. Harry didn't like to think ill of any student, _but_ …

Wendell always tried his best; even if it was seldom good enough and more often than not downright dangerous. 'One can only hope he outgrows it – either that, or fails to reproduce,' Minerva had succinctly summarized one time. 'Five sickles says he kills himself in my class instead of yours,' Snape wagered. 'We should just snap his wand now and save the Aurors the trouble later,' Flitwick offered. Yeah, that had been a great staff meeting – too bad Albus had outlawed firewhisky at subsequent meetings.

But those were thoughts for another time, as evidenced by Wendell patiently waiting to speak as he absently rubbed his ear.

"Yes, Mister Kendell," Harry said, trying really hard to sound as if he cared how the boy responded.

"I have a question, Professor. Earlier, when we were talking about Dementors, you mentioned that Patronuses are evil, but the textbook says they are protectors made from the happiest of memories. How can that be evil?"

How indeed, Harry thought to himself, his eyes clouding over as he remembered another time …

They'd been young and foolish and so very much in love. Voldemort had been defeated mere days before, and upon his release from St. Mungo's, mum-in-waiting Molly Weasley had insisted he come stay at the Burrow.

The night was young, the air was crisp, the moon was waning … or waxing … he still wasn't sure which was which. Dang Astronomy teacher and her dang robes that were two sizes too small in certain areas.

Ginny had been clinging to him since the moment they'd left sight of the house. To this day he couldn't believe that the family had let two horny teens head off into the night by themselves. Maybe they'd confused horny-ness for clingy-relief that they'd both survived. Maybe they'd been too wrapped up in Fred's retelling of Percy wearing robes with disappearing backs to work to pay attention. Maybe they were still trying to figure out why the ghost of Mrs. Norris had taken up residence in Ron's bedroom.

Whichever it was, Harry hadn't complained. He'd just thanked Merlin for the blessing and let Ginny lead him to a private area hidden inside a copse of trees. Declaring their deep and unending love for each other, they quickly lost themselves in their fiery, lust-filled urges. Neither was aware of anything but the other … not the sounds of frogs croaking, nor the smell of the evergreen needles beneath them, nor the strange lights streaking away from their private paradise.

"You've made me the happiest man alive," Harry had whispered when it was over.

"And you've made me the happiest witch alive," Ginny cooed back. "It's like every happy memory I've ever had before this moment is nothing."

In hindsight, he could see that the entire setup was so sickly sweet, so full of romance novel clichés, that it was too good to be true.

Proof of that came when they returned to the kitchen. They were greeted by five angry Weasley men, a Granger that wouldn't look either of them in the eye, and a weepy Mrs. Weasley, who ignored their appearance to continue kneading a ball of dough so roughly she could probably bounce it like a, um, ball.

The awkward silence needed to be broken.

"You two just missed the most amazing sight," Bill finally said, breaking the awkward silence.

"Did we?" Harry asked, hoping no one noticed how his voice cracked.

"Yep, 'bout half an hour after the two of you left, a great Stallion Patronus came prancinging into the room. It brought us a strange message then disappeared. What was that message again, Charlie?"

"I believe it said, _Harry … please_."

Was it Harry's imagination, or did Charlie sound breathless when he said that. Ginny certainly had when _she'd_ said it outside; when she'd begged him to put his hand _there_.

"Hold up," Ron said. "When did Ginny's Patronus change? And why a stallion?"

No one answered his questions; unless you count Hermione's jab to his ribs with her elbow.

Instead, Bill spoke up again. "But that's not the best part, Harry. A few minutes after that one faded, another stallion came galloping in, but this one was followed by a stag."

Bill paused, allowing that image to sink in. Beside him, Arthur Weasley was slowly mutilating his Fairy cake. The Muggle ice cube tray Harry had given him earlier that evening was forgotten on the table. Harry tried to take a cautious step towards the door, but his retreat was stopped when he stepped on Crookshanks, who hissed loudly and sunk his claws into Harry's leg.

"Now here's the strange part," Bill continued, ignoring Harry's pained expression. "See, when the stag caught up with the stallion, it tried to mount it."

"You can imagine how strange that sight was," Charlie added, "seeing as they're both male animals."

Ron turned to Hermione and grumbled, "I still don't get what the stag was trying to do. Was it trying to get on top of the horse to ride it?"

"Yeah Ronnie," Fred answered, "that's exactly what it was going to do … ride Ginny."

Harry couldn't breath … he was certain he'd forgotten how … he'd tried to pull his wand, but his hand was suddenly sweaty and it slipped from his fingers. Arthur Weasley, who had kept quite through the whole confrontation, dropped what was left of his cake and picked up the wand. Looking straight into Harry's eyes, he put it in his own pocket. Other Weasley men … Charlie, who wrestled dragons … Bill, who worked with bloodthirsty goblins … Ron, who did whatever dirty work Hermione wanted done …and Fred, who turned people into animals for fun … had started to close in on Harry ...

"Wand-point wedding," an older and wiser Harry mumbled, so quietly his student barely made out what he'd said.

"Did you … did you just way say _wand-point wedding_, Professor? What does that have to do with Patronuses?"

"What?" Harry startled, for he hadn't realized he'd spoken out loud. Turning to look at Wendell, he hastened to add, "oh – nothing – I was just thinking ..."

But before he could think of a suitable lie, er, explanation, he was saved by the classroom door opening. From the hall, a female voice called out "hey Stud, don't forget that dinner on Saturday is at six – oh, sorry," Hermione finished, having realized Harry wasn't alone.

"Er, hello Professor Weasley," Wendell stammered out, probably wondering why his Muggle Studies Professor was calling Professor Potter "Stud". Everyone knew she was his sister-in-law. Surely she wasn't attracted to him?

"Got it Hermione," Harry called out, hoping she would stop speaking before she let any other incriminating information slip. "Thanks."

"One quick thing," she continued with a smile, "Fred asked me to tell you that he's on his last bottle of Elf Wine, and that he ran into Rita Skeeter the other day and she was asking about you and Ginny again. I think that's all. See you at dinner Harry."

As the door shut, Harry looked his student in the eye and said, "you're just going to have to trust me on this one, Wendell. Patronuses are evil."

**** end chapter ****

**Notes:** I hope you didn't mind the departure, but this popped into my mind, and I figured 'what the heck'.


	5. Honest Intentions

Here's an interesting idea. What if Harry wants to make a Horcrux (because I'm sure there could be a perfectly good and harmless reason for him to do that), but accidentally makes something else? Would that be evil?

REMINDER: Every chapter is it's own little universe. Don't expect continuity.

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**E. Honest Intentions  
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"Harry … what _is_ that?"

"I'm not sure, Hermione. Some kind of unicorn vampire hybrid, I think. And did you notice the fangs? How they glisten? I'd bet Hagrid's left testicle they're poisonous."

"And … are those feathers?"

"Er … I think the Weasley's new owl, Birdette, was nesting in that tree before I started."

"How on earth did you manage to make that?" she asked in a voice full of wonder.

Harry nearly snorted. "Accidentally, of course. You think I _wanted_ to make a poisonous vampire-unicorn-owl thing?"

"Then what, exactly, were you trying to do?"

Ah, that was the crux of the matter. He thought about not answering, but knew it was no use. She'd perfected making him do what she wanted when they were twelve. "Er … ah … I was just trying to makeaHorcrux."

"Sorry, I didn't quite catch that. You didn't just say 'make a Horcrux', did you?"

Knowing he looked guilty, Harry turned away from his best friend, randomly looking around the mostly empty back garden of the Burrow. Even though he knew they were far enough away from the house that no one could eavesdrop, he quietly confessed, "Yeah. Sorta."

"_SORTA!_" she shrieked in the loudest whisper he had ever heard. "Harry, Horcruxes are the most evil thing known to mankind. What possible reason could you have for doing something like that?"

"I need to, Hermione," he tried to explain, sounding like he was fifteen and not twenty-five. "You saw what happened to Ron. Gone before he turned twenty. Slipped on a banana peel and broke his neck … a joke banana peel that he himself had dropped on the floor, at that."

"I know," she sighed. It still haunted her daydreams. "How many times had we all told him … you have to be more careful when you're stocking shelves at the shop. George was beside himself. He alternated between laughing and crying for hours – it was all I could do to get him to stop long enough to deliver the eulogy. But what does that have to do with you performing Dark Magic?"

"Well, lately I've been thinking about how much he missed by dying too soon. He never even had sex, Hermione!"

"Er … yeah … never," she sputtered to agree.

Not noticing her flushed face, he continued. "I realized, I can't afford to die right now. I have too much to do. I've only just become Head Auror. I've got to revolutionize the entire department, then run for Minister and overhaul that corrupt office, then take over Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts to make sure future generations are prepared, then become Headmaster so I can modernize the curriculum, then join the Wizengamot and clean that mess up. And learn how to make the perfect soufflé."

Dumbfounded, Hermione had to take a breath before speaking. "Harry, you don't have to do any of that."

This time, he did snort. "You've never lost a bet to Fleur, have you? If I don't have that soufflé perfected by her next birthday, I'm liable to loose a nut."

"I was talking about all that other stuff, you twit."

"Hermione, I'm the Boy-Who-Lived. The One-Who-Defeated. The youngest Head Auror in a century. All that stuff's expected of me."

"All that's expected of you is to marry Ginny and have a bunch of kids," she tried to reason.

"See … that's exactly what I mean. How am I supposed to squeeze that in if I die too soon?

Seeing she was getting nowhere fast, Hermione tried another angle. "What about the whole murder-requirement-thing?"

"Did 'murder-requirement-thing' just come out of your mouth? What, you're suddenly channeling Ron's spirit?

"Just answer the question," she huffed.

"I hate to break it to you, but I'm pretty sure I've already done it."

"And just how do you figure that?" she demanded to know, crossing her arms over her chest to let Harry know she didn't think he would have a good answer.

"Let's count, shall we?" he replied, holding up a finger. "We start when I was eleven and I finished off Quirrell. Burnt to a crisp, he was. Then there's Narcissa Malfoy, who tried to trade me sex for protection for Draco. Too bad we were standing so close to the train tracks when I pushed her away from me, but she really shouldn't have shoved her tongue in my mouth." As a shudder went down his spine, he added, "That tongue touched Lucius. Who I also killed, come to think of it."

Shaking those memories away, he continued his counting. "And when you're talking about my life, no list is complete without Voldemort. I definitely killed him, along with Nott Senior, one of the Carrows – I could never tell them apart … which is odd, since one of them was supposedly a woman, oh, and there was Moody, which I know was by accident, but it was definitely me that hit him in the head with that statue, no denying that. And that doesn't even include the ones I've killed since I became an Auror."

"None of those were murder, Harry," she insisted. "They were justified killings. Even Moody was justified. He shouldn't have dressed up like Snape and tried to scare you; April Fool's Day or not."

While it was kind of Hermione to think so, Harry couldn't help but feel she was missing a very fine point. Like when you put a period at the end of a sentence, but you don't really press down hard enough, so it's kinda hard to see, so your dumpy old hag of a teacher who's hated you ever since that blue hair incident marks ten points off – _ten__ points_ – for missing punctuation, and … wait, where was he? … right, missing the fine point.

"Hermione, do you remember last year, when I had to kill Henny Knutie?"

"I think so. He was the Dark Wizard with the trained chickens, right?"

"They weren't chickens," Harry explained, "they were wizards Imperiused to think they were chickens. He figured if all his enemies thought they were chickens, they couldn't fight him and he'd be able to rule the country."

Hermione's logical mind couldn't comprehend. "Who would want to rule a country full of people that think they're chickens? That's rather demented."

"I certainly thought so," Harry agreed. "But my point is, when he failed to put Minister Diggle under the Imperius Curse, he decided to drown him in a vat of boiling oil, and in order to stop him, I had to push _him_ into the boiling oil. Do you know what his widow said to me afterwards?

"You want chips with that?"

Rolling his eyes, Harry continued, "She called me a murderer. To this day she tells anyone who will listen that I murdered her husband. That's when I realized that murder is subjective. One man's justifiable homicide is another man's killing spree. Given the number of bad guys I've offed over the years, I figure my soul's already pretty splintered, so I can probably spare a piece for a Horcrux."

Hermione shook her head, thinking that if she rattled Harry's logic around her head enough, it would somehow make sense to her, too. Instead, it gave her a headache.

Loud shouts from the house reminded her that they'd strayed from the matter at hand, which was currently trying to reach a tree branch approximately eight feet out of its reach by balancing on its hind legs and hopping in place. Every time it hopped it made a peculiar laugh-like noise.

"Okay," she finally said, "your massive mental deficiencies aside, once you'd reached a level of stupidity even Ron at his best could never hope to achieve, and actually tried to create a Horcrux, how did that result in … this." With an irritated jerk of her arm, she pointed at the thing. It had just given up on the branch and was licking the grass.

Bracing himself, for he knew she would think he'd been beyond careless (which, in hindsight, maybe he was, just the tiniest bit), he explained, "Well…" – because that's how all brilliant explanations start – "… a Horcrux requires a receptacle, right? So I was looking around Grimmauld Place, looking for something to use that would seem innocent enough not to draw anyone's attention."

"That, at least, makes sense," Hermione said, urging him to continue.

"Yeah, but then I realized that I didn't want to use anything of mine, and I spotted some of Ron's old play dolls – you remember, the one's he kept hidden under his pillow – and I thought, why not. That way, if anyone asked why I was keeping them, I could just claim they were mementos of Ron."

"Wait, _they_? Just how many Horcruxes did you try to make?"

"I though I should start small, you know, so I only used his Count Duckula with the broke-off bill and the My Pretty Unicorn with the flowery flowing blue tail (that to this day I hope he was only stole from Ginny to make her mad). I figured since I was going to the trouble, why not make two."

"Why not?" Hermione sarcastically agreed.

"Except just as I said the spell, Birdette screeched and my wand jerked, but the spell didn't stop and there was this big flash of light and lots of smoke, and when it cleared … there it was."

They both turned their attention to the animal, which now had its head tucked between its front legs, looking for all the world as if it is was checking out its bits. Correction, Harry noted, his manly bits.

"You do realize that whatever it is, if you're right about just one of those deaths, it potentially has a piece of your soul inside it."

Whatever Hermione said next was lost to Harry; he'd turned his attention to his vampolcorn, seeing it in a new light. Suddenly, it wasn't a monster or an abomination to all things right and holy. It was kinda cute, in that ugly sort of way … like hairless dogs and baby trolls. And it was better than any pet, better than any familiar, because it was a part of him. And look at it - no - him, now … he's prancing in place, like he knows his daddy is watching and he's showing off for him.

From somewhere behind them, Bill Weasley shouted, "Take it back, you overstuffed poppycock,"

"I will not. You are being irrational. Probably a side effect of being a half-beast," the pompous voice of Percy replied.

Hermione and the furry-feathered-horned creature turned to look at the fighting brothers. Harry, however, only had eyes for his vampolcorn. With a decisive nod, he decided to name it Harrysaurus Rex. When he was little, that was the name he used when he pretended to be a crime-fighting mutant dinosaur with super vision, robot strength, and poisonous snot. Sometimes, it was very lonely in his cupboard.

"Crap," Hermione exclaimed. "Bill's spotted us … no, wait … he'd punching Percy in the gut. Look at how he bent him in half; I wouldn't have guessed Percy'd be that flexible."

Harry finally turned his attention to Percy, missing the sudden change in Harrysaurus Rex's behavior.

Harrysaurus Rex stopped his prancing and lifted his nose to sniff the air. Without warning, and strangely without making any noise, he took off in a dancing gallop that included little hops as if he was trying to take flight, despite not having any wings. As a result, he kept drifting the wrong direction, only to lurch back onto the correct path, much like a drunk man trying to fake a sobriety test. When he reached his destination – the back side of an unsuspecting, pompous red head – he tilted his head down and rammed forward, pushing his beautiful, pearly horn right in …

As Hermione ducked her head and winced, Harry turned to her and said, "Oh look, he's playing with Percy. Ron would have liked that."

**** end chapter ****

**Notes:** I wonder how much of Harry is in Harrysaurus Rex. I think he sounds kinda cute.

Also, I've lost my pet review. If you happen to find him, please send him to me.


	6. Accidentally on Purpose

This one's bound to get me in trouble, as I'm pretty much picking on the last 1/3 of Deathly Hallows. So before I begin, I want to be very clear – I may have a few teensy complaints over details, but I really do love the Harry Potter books. Overall, they tell an amazing story. This is criticism of love, not hate. Like when your mom says _'__are__ you __really__ wearing__ that__ dress__ with __those__ hips?__'_ Please take it in the tone it is intended.

But be honest, when you read the end of Deathly Hallows, didn't you find yourself having to go back and reread key points to make sure you understood them? And if we had a hard time understanding it, how did poor Harry feel?

.

.

**6th: Accidentally on Purpose**

_One small conversation could have changed everything …_

Harry stumbled out of the Headmaster's office in a daze. It was like a horrible dream … apparently, he was a Horcrux, which meant he had to die … and his mentor, the man he followed even beyond his grave, had known … and had told him nothing … hadn't prepared him at all for this bombshell. He stopped mid-step and looked down where his sleeve had torn away. Taking a deep breath, he moved a trembling hand to the exposed flesh and gave it a mighty pinch.

"_Yeoch!"_

"Harry, mate … you alright there?" asked a concerned voice from somewhere beside him, and Harry slowly tilted his head to the side.

He spotted Ron standing very close to him with a confused look on his face. Without straightening up, he tried to explain, "Just checking … hoping I was dreaming … guess not."

Ron and Hermione shared a silent look; one that spoke an entire conversation that included questioning Harry's sanity and wondering if there was any food left in the kitchens and determining their course of action (which, regretfully, did not include a trip to the kitchens).

Pulling Harry into the nearest room, which turned out to be Professor Hooch's office if the numerous posters of half-dressed male Quidditch players all muscular and sweaty could be trusted, they sat him down and listened as he told them about Snape's memories.

Being true friends, they "eww"-ed at the part where Snape and Lily were friends and "ick"-ed at the part where Snape's patronus was a doe and eventually "bleepity-bleep"-ed when he got to Dumbledore's cold discussion of his death.

"But I don't understand," he said as he finished his tale, "Dumbledore said Riddle had to be the one to kill me, but what if he chickens out and has someone else do it?"

"Oh Harry," Hermione gushed, her voice cracking as she struggled between going into all-out lecture mode and pulling Harry into a tight bear hug. "I don't think he _has_ to be the one to kill you, I think Dumbledore just reasoned that if he _was_ the one to kill you, you might be able to come back."

"What do you mean, 'come back'?" Harry asked. "You can't come back ... no one can come back. When you're dead, you're dead."

"Normally, that would be correct. But –"

"Harry," cried an overly-excited voice from the door, unintentionally interrupting Hermione's explanation. "I'm so glad I found you! Is it true, Harry? Is it true? Do you really have a master plan to vanquish You Know Who, imprison all his Death Eaters, and take over the Ministry? And then we can all return to Hogwarts together and –"

"Colin! We're kinda in the middle of something here." Harry tried to say it semi-nicely, and based on Colin's smile he succeeded.

"Oh, right, of course you're doing something important. You're the Chosen One. Everything you do is important. Hey, how about I take a picture of this important meeting – you know, for prosperity. I've just left my camera in the other hall, it won't take but a minute to fetch it."

"Or you could just scram," Ron told the boy.

Colin ignored the remark as he eagerly waited for Harry to share his wisdom. Ron ignored Hermione's reaction as he didn't feel like being lectured.

"You know what would really help, Colin?" Harry asked the boy, an idea forming in his mind to get the pest out of their hair. "If you'd run outside and count how many Death Eaters there are. Make sure you circle around so you don't miss any."

"Yeah," agreed Ron, warming to the idea, "but be careful you don't count the same ones twice … that would ruin the count, see, and we need an exact count … you know, for prosperity."

"Exactly," Harry agreed, trying to keep from openly grinning.

Hermione tried to stop Colin but it was no good. Harry's wish was his command and he was gone before she could even get his name out. She turned to give Harry an evil glare, but with his best 'innocent little me' look Harry politely said, "sorry for the interruption, Hermione. You were explaining how I can come back from being dead?"

"Er, yes … it's because you're, well, special. I know it sounds corny, but I'm sure you can come back. You Know Who created a loophole when he created his new body. He used your blood when he made it and that tied your body to his. As long as his new body is alive, your body can't die."

This confused Harry, as it seemed a blatant contradiction. "But, if my body can't die, then how would the Horcrux get out of me?"

"It would leave your body at the same time your soul leaves, only your soul would be able to come back, because your body won't be totally dead, just dead-like."

"_Dead-like?__" _he unknowingly repeated. What did that even mean? Zombie's were dead-like, weren't they? And vampires? Shaking his head in denial, he turned to her and, instead of shouting 'that's crazy talk, woman!' like he wanted to, he calmly said, "you do realize that makes no sense, right?"

"Honestly Harry, don't you listen? Only _your__ body_ is tied to Riddle by the blood. The Horcrux inside you isn't tied to him, so your soul gets to return because of your connection to Riddle, but the Horcrux moves on."

"Isn't tied to him?" Ron interrupted. "It's part of his soul. Doesn't get tied much tighter than that, I shouldn't think."

Exasperated, Hermione explained, "That was before he made the Horcrux. When that piece of Riddle's soul left his own body, its natural connection was broken. It's that way for all Horcruxes. Otherwise, the Horcrux would be able to return to him when the object it's inside is destroyed."

"Then how do you explain the connection with my scar? If he isn't tied to the Horcrux inside me, than how do we share thoughts and visions and biscuit recipes? Why do I feel his emotions and feel pain when he's close? Why do I …" and his voice grew very quiet as he gestured with his hand, "feel that burning _down__ there_ when he pees?"

"I don't have all the answers, Harry," Hermione conceded (leading Ron to make a mental note to mark this date on his calendar). "That must be a different kind of connection."

"Riiight." Harry said aloud, while to himself he thought _'__different__ Dudley__'__s__ pasty__ arse__'_. "So, back to my original question, what if Riddle's not the one that kills me? What if he's, I don't know, worried that the curse might rebound again so he has Malfoy or one of his other goons do it?"

"Well … I would think … that is to say … "

Seeing Hermione floundering, Harry continued, "I mean, I'm tied to him through our _blood_, not our wands. So how does it matter who tries to kill me? Shouldn't I be able to return regardless? Assuming Riddle is still alive, of course. If he was already dead, this whole conversation would be rather pointless."

"Unless it was a vampire that got you," Ron helpfully offered. "A vampire could suck all your blood out and that would pretty much end your connection to You Know Him, since you wouldn't share the same blood anymore. Might connect him to the vampire, though."

Hermione opened and closed her mouth several times, trying to come up with a good answer to Harry's question. Ron's addition to the conversation was largely ignored.

She finally settled on, "Dumbledore said it has to be You Know Who, Harry. I admit, I can't think of any possible reason why it has to be him, but better safe than sorry, right? Best to let him be the one to kill you to increase the odds that you can come back."

"I'm still confused," Ron called out, to no one's surprise. "I thought nothing could raise the dead. Isn't that like a fundamental law of magic or something?"

"He wouldn't be raised from the dead, Ronald," Hermione tried to calmly explain, though Harry could tell she was itching to smack him upside the head. Honestly, her hand was trembling at her side. "Harry won't really be dead, only mostly dead … then when the Horcrux is gone he sort of wakes back up."

Harry held up his hands to get their attention, which was a good thing as the trembling in Hermione's hand had turned into a pronounced clenching. "Alright, I think I've got it. I let Riddle – and only Riddle, because for some unclear reason it has to be him – hit me with Big Green. Only, I won't actually die, so much as just not be really alive … sorta in between alive and dead, but more dead than alive … so both my soul and this bloody piece of Riddle's soul, one that's not connected to him in any way other than that it shares thoughts and feelings with him … yeah … they both leave my body – which sounds an awful lot like death to me – but after that my soul can return to my still alive body while the Horcrux goes to rot in hell."

"Finally," Hermione said with a loud sigh.

Ron, perhaps a little behind the others, still had a confused look on his face. "But wait a minute … I don't remember the Killing Curse being on the list of things that can destroy a Horcrux." OK, so maybe he wasn't behind after all. "I mean, if it could, wouldn't they be pretty easy to get rid of? You could just walk around and blast anything you suspected of being one. Am I right?"

Harry got over being surprised that Ron had noticed the glaringly obvious while both he and Hermione had missed it. Turning to Hermione, he tilted his head in silent question.

At first, Hermione could only shrug helplessly in reply. But twelve and a half minutes later she came up with an explanation, which was much faster then the boys had expected, given the lack of large, dusty reference books in the room. "Maybe … maybe you're not a real Horcrux, maybe you're just nearly a Horcrux."

"That makes sense," Ron was surprisingly quick to agree, "he made you one by accident, right? So … maybe that makes it different. I mean, think about it. It's like a girl that's only a little pregnant. She's not really pregnant."

"Ah, Ron … a little pregnant is the same as pregnant," Hermione gently explained. "Girls only say they're a little pregnant because they're in denial or trying to be cute. They're still pregnant."

"Oh. What about … what about … oh, I know. There was this story Mum used to tell us about this man that drank this strange potion and it was supposed to make him extra smart or handsome or something but instead it accidentally turned him into a monster. But only after the sun went down … or was it when he ate after midnight? … no, it was when he got wet … yeah, he turned into this big, hairy monster when he got wet. But he was just fine when he was dry. Like that?"

"Very good, Ron," Hermione said in a proud voice as she winked at Harry, "we'll do our best to keep Harry dry."

Ron wasn't sure if he was being made fun of, if Hermione truly felt he'd been helpful, or (come to think of it) even exactly what he'd just said, so he choose to keep quiet.

"Er, hairy monsters aside," began Harry, "if I'm not a real Horcrux, then why did Dumbledore say I was? Why didn't he say I was just a little Horcruxish? "

"That's easy," Ron chuckled, "Horcruxish sounds like something you say when girls do things for money … you know … that Parkinson is quite Horcruxish."

"He didn't want me to think I was a slutty girl?" a skeptical Harry asked.

"Exactly," Ron replied, giving Harry a manly pat on the back. He was very happy Harry had caught on so quickly.

Hermione had to bite her cheeks to keep from laughing while a distracted Harry began making a mental list of all the girls he thought might be Horcruxish, with a subheading for those worth approaching when the battle was over (or maybe even before … this thing could drag on for days). It is hard to say what Ron was thinking, but he had a goofy grin on his face the entire time.

The trio sat in silence for many minutes, until finally the sharp sound of metal clanking on stone out in the hall broke them from their deep thoughts.

"Alright then. I know what I'm supposed to do," Harry said with confidence. "I'm supposed to let Riddle hit me with the Killing Curse, which is only going to mostly kill me but is going to completely kill the Horcrux inside because apparently I'm a special kind of Horcrux that works completely different from a normal Horcrux, and since I'm only mostly dead I'll still be alive in the end. That's what I'm supposed to believe?"

Ron made a soft whistling sound, and when he thought Harry wouldn't notice he made the 'you so crazy' sign by swirling his finger near his head.

"Well … " Hermione began, and Harry knew that when Hermione started slowly, it meant he wasn't going to like what he heard. "You're definitely supposed to think the first part – about letting him kill you. But … he didn't really explain the rest to you, now did he? So I don't think you're supposed to know the other part … because … I don't know … maybe he didn't want to get your hopes up in case we're wrong and you really do die and – you know – stay dead like a normal person. Plus, if you go into it willingly and expecting to die, then maybe there's some kind of ancient protection like with your Mum … only who would be protected? It worked for her because you shared her blood, and it's not like you share blood with the whole world … you really only share it with your Aunt and cousin … oh, and _him_ … which kinda blows the whole protection angle out the window. Just forget I said that last part." By the end of her speech Hermione was looking very apologetic.

Harry blinked twice at his friend ... then one more time. "Right," Harry decisively declared as he stood and patted down his pockets. "I've got a few spare galleons. I think I'm going to head back to the Hog's Head for a bottle or three. You two coming?"

Ron quickly jumped up to join his poor, crazy, marked-for-death best friend. But Hermione sputtered as she asked, "But … but, what about You-Know-Who?"

"He's welcome to come along, I guess, but he's buying for himself," Harry replied.

"_Harry__ …_"

"Hermione, it's going to take a whole lotta alcohol for me to be stupid enough to go through with that plan. So, you up for a game of Knuts?'"

**** end chapter ****

**Notes:** This is born from the headache I get every time I try to figure out how everything miraculously worked out just right in DH. Simply put; it shouldn't have. There were just way too many co-incidences and one-in-a-million happenings and contradictions. And yet ... I'd have been truly upset if Harry had died, so I guess I can't complain too much.

Please don't write to me with all sorts of theories and explanations as to why it worked in the book. I've probably read just about everything that's out there. And thinking about it too much triggers migraines.

That bit about Harry being nearly a Horcrux was introduced to me by a reviewer of my other story, and it comes from an interview Rowling did for PotterCast. In it, she says, "For convenience, I had Dumbledore say to Harry, "You were the Horcrux he never meant to make" … But Harry was not- did not become an evil object …" Her reasoning is that because Tom didn't perform the ritual, the Horcrux isn't 'real' or 'complete'.

(Feel free to skip this rant) And on the surface, that sounds great because it solves so many problems, like why Tom can't possess Harry. But it creates just as many – like why couldn't the soul just be removed, since it wasn't anchored to Harry through a ritual? A simple banishing spell should have done it. And, if it didn't become a part of Harry, how could it possibly cause that freaky connection? How could Harry use part of it – the parseltongue – if it was completely separate from him without any ill effect; because when Ginny 'used' the Diary Horcrux it slowly drained her lifeforce? Doesn't the fact that he can access its 'power' (for lack of a better word) rather prove it did become part of Harry?


	7. the dinner party

Another accidental Horcrux is born.

'Cause there's lots of ways to kill someone and then accidentally use your splintered soul to make a Horcrux.

Some of them are even funny.

**.**

**SETTING:**_ It's shortly after the war and Draco Malfoy desperately wants to be important again. He goes about it the only way he knows how – by kissing up to those more powerful than himself. Namely, our favorite quad of Gryffindors. In the name of peace he finagles a dinner invitation … _

**.**

**Siete: the dinner party**

Time seemed to stand still as the four people sitting at the dinner table – well, the four living people, at any rate – looked at each other in shock at what had just happened. Finally, it was the newly married Ginny Potter who was bold enough to reach her hand over and touch the neck of a slumped forward Draco Malfoy.

"No pulse … I think he might be … dead." She finished in a near whisper but everyone heard her just fine. Well of course they did; for the first time all evening Malfoy's big mouth wasn't moving.

Unfortunately, 'dead' wasn't the answer Harry was looking for, what with his new job as Youngest Auror in a Century. (Seriously, that's what the sign on his cubicle says ... in a shrill voice with a snooty french accent.) In a hopeful voice he asked his beautiful new wife, "Are you certain he's not faking? 'Cause he could be faking. Try pouring water over his head."

Yet after three rounds of the Aguamenti charm Malfoy remained as still and silent as when he'd been dry.

"That doesn't prove anything," Ron tried to reason. Turning to his girlfriend he said with conviction – the kind he normally reserved for things like declaring Snape a git and announcing it was time to eat – "I'm sure he's not really dead, Moni."

Harry and Ginny both noticed Hermione's lack of cursing at the hated nickname and took it as a bad sign. (Ginny going so far as to very slowly shift so she was out of Hermione's clear line of sight.) Ron, on the other hand, took her silence as a good sign, since he had first hand knowledge that Hermione rarely hexed nonverbally these days. Wanting to prove his girlfriend hadn't _really_ killed Draco Malfoy, he offered, "How 'bout if I punch him in the family jewels? That'll wake the ponce right up."

Hermione didn't respond beyond a slight whimpering noise that reminded Harry of the sound his new puppy Severista made when she desperately wanted to be let out.

In what Harry would later describe as "much, much too enthusiastically", Ron pushed Malfoy upright, tipped his chair a bit, and hit him right where it counted with enough force to knock a grown man from his broom. Then he did it again in case Malfoy had taken a page from Harry's book and was just playing dead. And again for good measure. And one more time, just to be certain he'd done it right. And once more, because –

"Enough, Ron," Ginny yelled. "He's not going to react. I think it's pretty obvious he really is …" she paused to look sympathetically toward Hermione, "dead."

Hermione immediately and loudly wailed before jumping from her seat and running from the room in a very dramatic fashion. Down the hall a door banged shut loudly and the three remaining (well, alive anyway) dinner guests decided it was in their own best interests to leave her alone for the immediate future. And probably the near future as well.

So there they were; Harry, Ron, Ginny, and the dead Malfoy.

"Talk about awkward endings to dinner parties," Harry muttered.

Ron lifted his spell that was holding Malfoy's chair in place and it slammed back to the floor causing Malfoy's body to once again slump forward. His face landed directly on his dinner plate, sending his unfinished food airborne. The sound of gravy splattering on the tablecloth caught Ron's attention.

"Guess he picked a bad night to bury the hatchet," Ron said as he reached across the dead body to pick up a meatball from an unoccupied part of the plate.

"That's not funny, Ron," Harry admonished as he watched Ron sniff the meatball.

"It's a little funny," Ginny countered.

Ron ate the meatball.

"Ginny," Harry almost yelled. Only almost – Ginny did not take kindly to being yelled at during certain times of the month. (Or on Tuesdays, but as today is a Wednesday, that is irrelevant.) "In case you missed it, Malfoy is dead."

"And what a way to go … death by Savoury Ducks," Ron laughed as he began poking around Malfoy's unfinished salad, probably looking for uneaten bits of bacon.

"You're not helping, Ron," Harry snapped. "Do you have any idea of the paperwork this is going to take? People are bound to question him dying at my house. And how do I explain what happened … subject attempted to eat food that fought back?"

Ginny turned her attention away from Ron (who was indeed picking bacon out of the salad and eating said bacon – _mmm, bacon_). "Harry, it's not our fault. We warned him about Hermione's cooking. You can't just eat an entire meal of it; you have to build up a tolerance.

"It never killed any of us," he countered.

"Yes, well …Ron's got an iron cauldron for a stomach. One time, he ate lamb stew that had been left on the stove for an entire weekend and all he got from it was the toots. Nearly gassed the rest of us out of the house, mind you, but he was just fine. And you, Harrywoozlebear, have a healthy dose of both basilisk venom and phoenix tears floating in your bloodstream. I doubt anything could poison you."

"But you eat it, too," Harry pointed out.

"That's because I've built up a tolerance. I banished the majority of my plate to the dog's dish for months before I was able to handle more than a few forks full. Didn't you ever wonder what happened to your first dog?

"You mean Hermione's cooking killed Dolores? I always thought she died from poison – oh!" Casting a glance at Malfoy, he realized that it was entirely accurate to say he'd been poisoned. "I see what you mean. Man, Kingsley's going to have a field day with this report."

"Not necessarily," she replied with a knowing look, "there doesn't have to be a report if no one knows what happened."

Without looking up from his salad scavenging, Ron chimed in. "Yeah, it's unlikely the ferret admitted to any of his friends that he was coming here. I mean, he doesn't even have any friends, does he? Just his Mum; and she ran off with that floo salesman. Touring Spain last I heard."

Harry perked up at the possibility of avoiding all that paperwork. The official Witness to Foul Play form alone was three scrolls long. "Alright, say I go along with this. What do we do with him?"

Ron paused mid-examination of an olive (he was trying to determine if it had any Malfoy germs on it). "Lawn ornament? Chew toy for Hagrid's new pet?"

"I'm sure you boys will come up with something. I think the real question is … what are we going to do with that?" Ginny used her wand to point to the wine glass Hermione had been holding when Malfoy met his untimely (if not unwelcomed) demise.

Ron nearly chocked on the olive. "Is that …"

"A Horcrux?" Harry finished. "Yeah, probably." Moving closer to the glass he pulled his wand and waved it determinedly … or randomly … really, it all looks about the same.

As Harry did his magic Ginny voiced a thought. "I love Hermione and all, but honestly, what person in their right mind discusses the spells used in making a Horcrux with a semi-reformed Death Eater during a dinner party?"

"I know," Ron said, nodding his agreement "seems like the kind of thing one saves for over pudding."

Harry, meanwhile, was sadly watching as a halo of electric blue light faded into the wine glass. "It's a Horcrux alright."

"Then we have to destroy it," Ginny said as she slapped Ron's hand away from the peas that had fallen off the edge of Malfoy's plate when he'd done his face-slam.

"Oi!" Ron exclaimed. "Destroy a piece of my girlfriend's soul? Are you insane?"

"Ron," Harry patiently began – mostly because he wanted Ron to pay attention to him and not Malfoy's deathly peas. "Horcruxes are unnatural, they're … abominations, they're … hard to spell and awkward to pronounce. They shouldn't exist. And look at what they did to Tom Riddle. If you don't want Hermione to lose her nose, too, it has to be destroyed."

He'd thought his logic was flawless and that he was talking to the newer, more enlightened and reasonable Ron. He was wrong on both counts.

"Oh yeah? Well if you're so hard to do it, why don't you destroy a piece of _your_ girl—er—wife's soul?"

Harry nearly snorted. "You mean aside from the fact that she doesn't have a Horcrux that we know of? How about the fact that she's standing right there and has her wand pointed at your family jewels?"

And indeed, she did; and Ron hadn't even seen her move. _'Man I love her,'_ Harry thought.

Ron slumped his shoulders in defeat. "We can't destroy a part of Hermione's soul, Harry. We just can't."

"Actually, he's right," Ginny admitted. "We seem to be fresh out of basilisk venom and you know the Sword won't answer your summons since that time you and Neville used it to—"

"Got it, Ginny. You swore you'd never bring that up again, just like I swore I'd never tell anyone about that octopus you and your dorm mates—"

"So it's agreed," Ginny rushed to say. "We can't destroy it. So what do we do with it?"

For several minutes everyone was quiet; though it should be pointed out Malfoy only remained so because he was dead.

It was Harry who smiled triumphantly. "Alright, here's the plan. We clean the glass up and put it on the bookshelf next to my snitch. Then we tell everyone it's a ceremonial goblet or the lost flute of the Nargles or some such thing." See, Hermione wasn't the only one who could come up with a good plan.

"You want to just leave a bit of her soul sitting out on a shelf?" Apparently Ron didn't see the brilliance of the plan.

"Hey, it worked for Dumbledore," Harry replied as he casually flicked a pea so it rolled across the table toward Ron.

Ron gave Harry a look that clearly said 'Huh?' before he felt something hit his hand. Looking down, he noticed the lone pea. He eyed it suspiciously, shifting his gaze between the rogue pea and Malfoy's facially covered plate.

"Come on Ron. You seriously never noticed how our esteemed Headmaster grew weaker and weaker during our sixth year? How it started right after I had my temper tantrum in his office and destroyed all those knickknack things he had sitting around? Mighty convenient that before I did that he was invincible; and after I did that he was disarmed by Draco bleeding Malfoy." To emphasis his point he jabbed his finger in the direction of the Boy Who Died From Eating.

Knowing she needed to get things moving before Harry went off on one of his 'Wasn't that _convenient_?' rants or Ron decided to eat the peas sticking to Malfoy's cheek, Ginny whistled loudly. Like the well trained dog-er-boys they were, both turned and gave her their full attention.

"Well, I'll leave you boys to do something with Draco 'even in death I'm a pain in the arse' Malfoy. I'll clean the glass and take care of the evidence, er, I mean leftovers."

And so, from that point on, Harry and Ginny kept a single wine glass in the very back of the old display case in the library at Grimmauld Place. It ended up sandwiched between Harry's fifteenth 'Auror of the Year' award and Ginny's trophy for the most uncalled fouls in a season from the Harpies.

Draco Malfoy's disappearance was finally reported on September 17th, more than 10 months after the fateful dinner party. Harry, who always professed if luck was a bitch then he must be in heat, got assigned the case. He got right to work bribing Minister Shacklebolt with a bottle of his favorite drink, Drunken Hallows Elder Wine _– "Death's favorite vice!" _No one knew exactly what was said, but when the two inebriated men wobbled out of Kingsley's office the case was closed, Kingsley was singing love ballads about his secretary, and Harry was crowned the new Head Auror. (And it was a very pretty crown, too. Very manly; not too sparkly at all. He wore it to his uncle's funeral.)

Xenophilius Lovegood eventually became the proud owner of what he was certain was the cursed remains of a mummified giant leprechaun. He made his purchase when the contents of Malfoy Manor were auctioned off to pay Narcissa Malfoy Smiggle's second husband's gambling debts. When asked about the origin of the mummy she could only say "I never questioned Lucius about his toys."

Much to everyone's great relief, Hermione Granger – who became Hermione Weasley after a strange incident involving multiple servings of butterbeer schnapps and rice pudding and an ill advised game of truth or dare – never again hosted a dinner party. She tried to once, but with Harry and Ron's help her husband was able to talk her out of it. And the world was safer place.

**** end chapter ****

**Notes: **Savoury ducks, according to my source, are traditionally made from pig's heart, liver and fatty belly meat or bacon minced together, formed into a ball, and fried. They have another, more popular name, but I figured most Americans would think I was making a bad joke if I used it. Personally, they sound gross enough to kill even with proper cooking.

Happy reviews greatly appreciated; nasty reviews haughtily ignored.


	8. What Would Freud Say?

"In fact, being - forgive me - rather cleverer than most men, my mistakes tend to be correspondingly huger." _Albus Dumbledore_

**.**

**.**

**Part Eight: What Would Freud Say?**  
>(aka Albus' mistake, take three)<p>

_._

"_Avada Kedavra"_

'_Oh sh—'_

_Then …_

_._

Harry Potter was very confused. He'd just died; he was certain of it. Heard the words, saw the flash of green, remembered thinking 'oh sh—'. So why was he here, at King's Cross station, walking and talking to Albus Dumbledore instead of meeting his parents and Sirius in the Great Beyond? He'd never been overly religious, but wasn't there supposed to be a bright light … or pearly gates … or goblins with wings playing harps? Certainly not a shiny scarlet train in an otherwise empty station. For Merlin's sake, there was graffiti on the wall – 'Fudge This!'_ – _Heaven wasn't supposed to have vandalism!

And, while it was certainly nice of Dumbledore to discuss his theories on the Deathly Hallows and the nature of Horcruxes and his "huger than most" mistakes … it was all rather academic now, wasn't it? He was, after all, dead. They both were.

So why was the spectral Headmaster still droning on? And why, in the name of Merlin's toe cheese, did the old coot keep looking around like he'd dropped his last piece of candy?

Harry glanced around, but other than his expired Headmaster the only one here seemed to be himself. That, in and of itself, was odd. The many, may times he'd contemplated this moment, he certainly didn't imagine being with a man he barely knew. He was expecting his Mum and Dad, Sirius and Remus. Hadn't they just promised they'd be here for him? Blimey, even Cedric would be welcome right about now – and Harry was pretty sure the Hufflepuff would still be miffed about that "spare" thing.

He was starting to wonder if he'd done something horribly wrong and this was his own personal hell.

Maybe God didn't think it was funny that he'd once spent three weeks sneaking into Dudley's bedroom and pouring water in his bed; there was that time he'd let Mrs. Weasley think it was the twins that had fed the garden gnome that firecracker; or the times he'd tried to kill Snape; or maybe he shouldn't have been using the Unforgivables so willy-nilly of late. Sweet Merlin – what if Petunia had been right about boys who do _that_ in the loo?

Now that he thought about it, Albus Dumbledore as his personal demon seemed strangely appropriate. But then the very Hermione-ish voice that lived in the back of his mind ... gets awfully crowded in there what with Hermione and Voldemort - "_focus, Harry!"_ she screeched ... spoke up and he realized there was something more here than meets the eye.

The man formerly known as Supreme Mugwump was clearing his throat and Harry decided he should pay more attention to the man's stories. After all, faux-Hermione had reasoned, there had to be a point to this unusual meeting.

"As I said … sadly, that was not my worst failure. You see, many years ago, when Argus Filch first came to work at Hogwarts …"

The two continued their stroll around the deserted station as Dumbledore continued his most enlightening story, all the while surreptitiously looking beneath benches and into windows and even oh-so-casually checking inside a trash receptacle.

They were nearing the end of the train as, thankfully, Dumbledore came to the end of his story ... "and that is why I always looked the other way at Argus' unusual closeness to his cat." With that, he turned and rested his hand Harry's shoulder, completely ignoring the chalky green color of the teen's skin and the little gagging noises Harry was trying to smother with his hand.

What ever he was about to say, Dumbledore clearly wanted Harry's full attention. Dear Merlin … Lord … Buddha … anyone that's listening … please don't let it be another story involving adults with questionable sexual appetites. Maybe … hopefully … it would be directions to get to his parents. He'd even accept another lecture on trusting Snape. Just _please_, not that again.

"This has been pleasant, Harry," the man said, as if Harry had had some sort of choice in the matter. "I have missed our times together."

"Yeah, me too," Harry replied with false enthusiasm. Then, noticing Dumbledore was yet again gazing toward the Hogwarts Express, he asked, "So is that supposed to take me to Heaven? You know ... I've always wondered, is it one big place or are there lots of different levels? Are wizards and Muggles mixed together or are we separated? I hope it's mixed, 'cause I'd love to meet Shakespeare or Captain Cook or Guy Fawkes – hey, I just realized his name is the same as your phoenix. I wonder if he took his name from your pet. That would be brilliant, to have a famous person take your pet's name as his own."

"Harry, that's not –" Dumbledore tried to interrupt.

"You know who I'd really like to meet?" Harry continued, clearly on a roll now. "The idiot that created the first basilisk, Herpo the Foul. I mean, a snake that kills just by looking at you … how could he have possibly thought that was a good idea? And hatching a chicken egg under a toad? How, exactly, do you even come up with that? You're just sitting around one day, getting ready to cook an egg, and you suddenly think to yourself, 'hey, I wonder what would happen if I it shoved this under a toad?'."

"Harry-" he tried again.

"Or you know who'd be even better to meet … that guy … you know, the one with the sword."

"Godric Gryffindor?" Dumbledore suggested, no doubt wondering how the conversation had gotten so far off track.

"No … the one with the dead father … and the cool accent … what was his name? … Oh, I know! … Inigo Montoya!"

"You can't meet him, Harry," Dumbledore sighed. "He is a character from a children's story."

"Oh," a dejected Harry replied. "How about—"

"Harry, my boy," Dumbledore all but shouted. "Before you finalize your dance card for the after life … I can't help but ask … do you not feel the urge to return to your body?"

Caught off guard by the question, Harry had to stop a moment to consider that. Did he want to return to his body? Curiously, he looked back over his shoulder and saw, not the other side of a train station, but the forest clearing full of Death Eaters he had recently left behind.

Apparently, time passed differently in this place; for in the time it had taken for Albus to turn him off sex for eternity and stifle his friend-making endveours, the Death Eaters in the clearing had had enough time to get their celebration well under way. And what a celebration it was – dancing and singing and passing the bottle – and that was just Lucius Malfoy. Most of the others were standing around the punch bowl laughed and slapping each other on the back. The 'ding, dong, the wizard's dead' banner over the table was a nice touch, Harry thought.

Turning his attention back to the Headmaster, he snorted. "Well, seeing as my body is currently hanging from a tree, being batted like a piñata, I'd say no, I don't feel that particular urge."

"No?" Dumbledore asked in surprise. "Are you quite certain?"

Looking again, Harry watched as Bellatrix Lestrange took a particularly vicious swipe, hitting his body in its nether region. He cringed reflexively. That had to hurt; or at least, it would of, if he'd been alive. "Yeah, I'm sure."

"Most curious. I was certain you would want to return."

"Would you want to return to that?" Harry asked as he pointed back over his shoulder. "How would I even get myself out of that mess? I mean, I might be able to kick a few of them, but hanging from a tree with your arms bound isn't exactly a defendable position, now is it? And I'm pretty sure I'd be speaking soprano from now on – so it's not like I'd have a shot with Ginny. Not that I'm interested in that now anyway ... not after hearing ..." He involuntarily shuddered.

When his mentor-turned-pest didn't respond to that, Harry opened his eyes to find him currently stooped over, looking under the train.

"Er … you keep looking around like you're searching for something. Have you lost anything, Professor?" _'What was left of your mind, perhaps?'_

Standing up, Dumbledore flattened his electric-green robes in what looked like a nervous manner. "I was expecting to see someone, or something, I guess you could call it, arrive with you. You haven't by chance spotted a creature of some fashion around here anywhere, have you?"

"Some _thing_? Isn't this the afterlife? I thought you had to have a soul to get here and things don't have souls …unless …" Trailing off, Harry scanned the area. He didn't see anything out of place, unless you counted the fact that the afterlife included a long red train ready to shoot out of a long, dark tunnel.

The fact was, Harry and Dumbledore were completely alone here. Except …

Turning his attention back to the silent dead guy in front of him, he spoke. "If I really had a piece of his soul inside me, it should be here too. So where is it?"

Instead of answering, Albus Dumbledore began to whistle softly, his eyes looking up and down and anywhere but at the dead teenager in front of him.

Giving the place one last useless look, Harry sighed. "It isn't here, is it? Because there was never a part of Voldemort's soul inside me … _I was never a Horcrux in the first place!_"

For the briefest of moments, Harry considered everything he'd been looking forward to experiencing in life … everything he'd left behind based solely on Dumbledore's theory … being best man at Ron's wedding … finding a book Hermione hadn't read … counting his vault to see if he was as rich as he was rumored to be … building a house with its own moat … getting to touch Ginny's - no, that was ruined for him now … little Teddy Lupin … Mrs. Weasley's treacle tart … Vernon Dursley's funeral … Quidditch … spending decades watching Draco Malfoy grovel … it all flickered through his mind.

He glared at Dumbledore with an evil glint in his eye, his unbroken holly wand suddenly appearing in his hand. "You better run, old man."

****end chapter****

**Notes:** I was on my way to a funeral (of all places) when I had this image of Harry not being able to go back to his body after all. This one didn't turn out as funny as the others; sorry about that. But this demanded it be included, because excessive pride often leads to accidental evil.

**It should be noted** that some people identify the Monster at the End of the Station to be the piece of soul inside Voldemort (who was, after all, also knocked out by his spell) and not the Horcrux inside Harry. I have a problem with this … ('no, really?' I can hear you all say) … because the monster was rather infantile in its lack of awareness and lack of ability to interact with the others. If that thing was the soul sperm that was inside Voldemort's body – that which makes him Voldemort – then what happened to it? It was completely aware and capable when it was nothing but a shadow – it possessed Quirrell for goodness sake – thus proving it doesn't need a body to be functional.


	9. It Ain't Easy Being Immortal

Why did a body-less Voldemort hide in an Albanian forest for nine years? Why did it take Albus so long to put all the pieces together? Why would anyone go on a holiday with hags? These and many other questions will be answered! Several of which would have been better off never asked!

(Hint – accidental evil might be involved!)

.

.

**3 squared: It Ain't Easy Being Immortal**

**.**

**0300 hours, 1 November, 1981  
>Witness Interview Lounge (the light blue one, not the bright pink one)<br>Ministry of Magic, Department of Magical Law Enforcement**

The rest of the magical world was already hours into some serious partying. Diggle, for example, had just been arrested for drinking his way through eight gilly-and-tonics and then standing naked (except his top hat, of course) on a London street corner offering to share his good news to every Muggle that walked by.

But deep inside the Ministry, a band of dedicated witches and wizards continued to work tirelessly to finish the last of the paperwork that went with ending a war. And make no mistake; end-of-war paperwork is second only to being caught naked with an underage wizard, a centaur, and pogo stick as the average bureaucrat's worst nightmare. In fact, most wizards have no idea that the average goblin uprising consists of 3 days of active fighting followed by 15.2 months of finalizing the cease-fire paperwork.

Senior Auror Milford M. Muffington was one such dedicated wizard. He hadn't left his post. He wasn't knee-deep in his pints. No, he was sitting across from a witness (who was rattling off her entire life story – that's the last time he'd start with 'tell me about yourself') doodling cartoon Dark Marks with pig noses, spiky hair, and crossed-eyes in the border of the report he'd been given.

OK; maybe not quite so dedicated.

When the witness stopped talking Muffington dutifully put down his quill. Not sure if he'd missed anything important, he picked up the initial statement that was supposed to contain the bare-bones of the case and appeared for all the world to be studying the parchments in front of him. He was very good at looking like he was reading, when in truth he couldn't tell English from Russian from Ancient Runes. He hadn't been able to comprehend written words since he'd taken that Pudinbrane Curse during the Goblin Rebellion of Last Call. (Six drunk goblins, one bent knut, and an unpaid bar tab – enough said.)

He snuck occasional glances at the woman, with her old-lady hair style, her plain and practical robes, and her pudgy hands, trying to recall everything he'd been told about her. He knew her to be little Harry Potter's nanny. He knew she'd been at the house at the time of the attack. He knew she had a chocolate sprinkle stuck in her teeth and a mole shaped like a penguin near her left ear.

First At The Scene-ers had already gotten her story of how the Potters were killed. It was his job to find out if anything strange or unusual had occurred during or after the attack. As if a toddler surviving the Killing Curse wasn't unusual enough? Did they suspect the Potter tot pooped gold? That He Who Still Must Not Be Named Just In Case had actually tripped on a rubber ducky and Lily Potter had laughed to death at the sight?

He glanced at the useless parchments, certain they held some clue as to what he was supposed to be looking for. Perhaps he should start paying more attention during briefings, seeing as he couldn't read and all. Then again, it'd been eight years and no one had caught on yet.

Turning his attention back to the interview, he grabbed up his quill and made quite the production of getting just the right amount of ink on it. Pretending to read from his parchment, Muffington got the interview back on track.

"Right then … so you were …" he prompted, knowing she would fill in the blank.

"In the bathtub."

"Bathtub. Right. So, bathing when He Who Must Not Be Named arrived at the home. And you … "

"I heard Mr. Potter shout for his wife to take the child and run. Isn't that what the report says?"

Well, wasn't she a bit testy. "Just checking the facts, Ma'am," he huffed. "So you hear the shout and …"

"I heard Mrs. Potter run up the stairs to the nursery but before she could get away I heard another person slithering up the stairs."

"Slithering?" he incredulously asked. "Isn't You Know Who human? And how do you hear slithering anyway? What could that possibly sound like?"

"It sounds like this …" The nanny raised her arms and brought her hands together over her head, palm touching palm. Then, in the perfect imitation of a cobra entranced by a piper, she began swaying her body side to side. "Schwish-schump," she said as her body shifted left. "Schwish-schump." Body to the right. "Schwish-schump." Body to the left. "Schwish-schump-schabump" Body to the right, then back to the middle.

Then, calm as you please, as if imitating reptiles was something one normally did over tea, she lowered her arms, picked up her tea cup, and took a healthy gulp. "Could use a bit more sugar, luv."

Her question brought Muffington out of his trance. He shut his mouth and blinked his eyes a few times before her words registered and he summoned the sugar bowl from a side table.

"Slithering. Right. So then you hid until the fight was over?" Pulling his original parchment close, he studied his latest drawing. It was missing something.

"Oh goodness no," she exclaimed. "It wouldn't be proper to be naked with a strange man in the house. I hopped from the tub, threw on a robe, and ran to the tot's room."

"Ran. Right. Wait—what? You ran _toward_ the most evil wizard of our time?" In his surprise he poked his drawn skull in its mouth with his quill. The resulting splotch looked oddly like uneven teeth.

"Sure did! Can you imagine the girls at Friday Gobstones? Witnessing You Know Who first hand? I'd be the envy of the league!"

"Gobstones. Right. So then you ran in and saw …" He decided to add an ear with an earring to his Dark Mark drawing. Unfortunately, he was distracted by the formerly composed nanny suddenly breaking down in tears. Being the well trained Auror he was, he told her where to find the tissues. It gave him time to add the earring ... and then a bow tie because Death Eaters were supposed to be well dressed fellows.

Once she had composed herself, she began her tale. Looking for all the world as if he was diligently putting to parchment her story, he kinda listened as she described hearing her mistress refuse to stand aside … the Killing Curse and the resulting thump of a body falling … the gleeful cackle that had turning into a coughing fit … and as she popped her head into the room another flash of green from Voldemort's wand, only this one hit the dear boy on the forehead and rebounded.

"Rebounded. Right. Anything else unusual happen or was that it for the 'stranger than vampire shit' department?"

"You mean strange because they don't really eat food, so why would they need to poo … or strange because no person in their right mind would go around checking other beings poo in the first place? Which strange are you looking for?"

"I hadn't really considered the second type," he confessed, tilting his head in clear concentration. "You'd best just tell me anything you found strange."

"Well, it was rather strange what happened when the rebounded curse hit Him," replied the nanny, glad he was writing this down so she wouldn't have to repeat the horrific story ever again. "He sort of dissolved away, leaving this black mist which hovered for a moment before moving toward the window." On a roll, she rushed to get her story told. "But before it got too far a house fly flew into the mist and they both seemed to freeze in the air. Then the black mist started sinking into the house fly and when it was all absorbed the fly glowed red for a second … then it was unfroze and it flew off. Not normal flying, though. It was wobbling around and flipped a over a few times, almost like it didn't know what it was doing."

Muffington put down his quill to pay more attention – this story was much more interesting. Too bad he couldn't write it down.

"It ended up tangled in a spider web where it was eaten by a big, fat spider," she continued. "Then _the spider_ gets that strange red glow. And then, just when I thought it was over … the family owl swooped in through the open window, gobbled up the spider, and flew out again. And I swear _it_ was glowing red when it left."

"Red. Right … and you say the black mist was sucked into a house fly?" the Auror pressed.

"Yes; that's what I saw."

"A house fly, that got eaten by a spider, that got eaten by an owl?"

"Yes," the nanny said, nodding her head in agreement.

"And you're sure it was a house fly? Only, they're kinda small … kinda hard to see, ain't they?"

"It was a very big house fly," the nanny assured Muffington. "An _enormous _house fly."

"Enormous, heh? How about gigantic? Would you say it was a gigantic house fly?"

"Well now that's just ridiculous, isn't it?" she chided. "Who ever heard of a gigantic house fly?"

Sitting back, Muffington crossed his arms. "I didn't ask if you'd heard of it. I asked if you'd say it."

"What … just say it was a gigantic house fly?"

"Right, but that was a question. You need to _say_ it."

"It was a gigantic house fly," the confused nanny said.

Grinning, Muffington leaned forward. "Now try in a scary voice."

Wiggling in her seat, she cleared her voice and tried her best to make it sound high and squeaky. "It was a gigantic house fly." In truth, aside from the squeakiness, it didn't sound any different from the previous time she'd said it.

"Good … good. Now try with an American accent."

"Alight," she agreed, although it was easy to tell she didn't understand why. "I ... I darn near reckon that there house fly was gigantic." She added a giggle at the end, enjoying her own impersonation.

"Now see if you can do French," Muffington urged, earning a big smile from the nanny, who was quite enjoying herself now.

Fluffing her hair to get into character, she pushed one shoulder forward and said, "ze 'ouse fly, it iz – 'ow you say – gigantic."

"Wonderful. Now in Pig Latin."

"MUFFINGTON," screeched Mad-Eye Moody as he stomped into the lounge. "What in bloody blazin' hell is wrong with you, man? Get your scrawny arse outa here before I have you shipped out to interview Dementors."

As Muffington scurried from the room, Moody thanked the nanny for her time and let her leave. Shaking his head, he picked up Mufflington's report, only to find a smiling, ear-pierced, snake-tongue tied, cartoon Dark Mark.

"Maybe retirement isn't such a bad idea," he grumbled as he left the room.

* * *

><p><strong>1630 hours, 3 November, 1981<br>Alley behind The Hogs Head, near Wax Works Candle & Incredibly Lifelike Statuary Emporium  
>Hogsmeade, Scotland<strong>

"Quiet now," shouted the Auror, a no-nonsense woman of middle age with shortly cropped greyish hair, a soft but plain face, and one arm a good three inches longer than the other. As usual, she was trying to hide her deformity by leaning heavily to one side. This did not fool any observers; it did give her a powerful back ache and a nagging crick in her neck from forcing her head upright.

"Tell me again," she began, and instantly the motley group began shouting over each other to be heard. Only odd words could be picked out … "swooshed" … "cat-hater" … "Goldstein" … "lobster bisque".

"Looks like I picked the wrong week to stop drinking," she mumbled as she snuck a sip from her hip flask.

With an angry flick of her wand she sent a burst of green sparks into the air. The crowd of misfits surrounding her, perhaps still unable to believe Lord Voldemort had indeed been defeated, watched the sparks with growing horror. Rorschach could have explained to them how they had imagined the Dark Mark hidden in the sparks, a reaction the hardened Auror might have been counting on. Or they could have simply had a natural fear of green, or of sparks, or of Aurors holding wands. Or any combination thereof.

Whatever the reason, the green sparks did their job and the mob fell still and silent.

"You," she barked out as she pointed with her wand toward the closest of the men. He was short – but looked even shorter because he was hunched over – with dirty brown robes and hair like a rabid beaver. She mentally dubbed him Beaver Boy. "Tell me your story."

It wasn't a question, it was a command and like a mindless storm trooper, he responded immediately.

"I was here see'in me buddy Goldstein about some … er … objects of interest. And he was tell'in me how happy he was that that dark guy … Lord Whats-It-Thingy had bit the dust on account 'o him being a … what's the word … Mugglebirthed. Ain't that right, Goldy? An' outa nowhere this big bloody Augurey comes swoopin' outa nowhere and starts apeckin' em in the ear. In the ear! Ain't never seen nothin' like it before."

"Right in me ear," the one presumed to be Goldy agreed with a stupid grin. He stuck his finger in his ear as if that proved his claim. "THIS 'UN … NO, THE OTHER ONE," he shouted.

"Right in the ear," the Beaver Boy repeated (obviously thinking the Auror hadn't understood the first three times). "Bloody Augurey!"

"Weren't no Augurey, you bloody fool. It was a post owl; plain and simple," interrupted a thin man wearing worn overalls under his open robes. He smelled strongly of fish. She named him Mister Fish.

"A really big post owl," the Beaver Boy insisted.

"An average owl at best," Mr. Fish countered.

"Well … you have to admit it had some seriously messed-up eyes. Bright red, they was."

"BIG RED THINGS," Goldy concurred, nodding his head. He looked rather stupid, thought the Auror, seeing as he still had his finger in his ear.

"Looks like I picked the wrong week to stop smoking," she grumbled to herself before casting a furtive spell to make her robes give off an incense-like vapor.

Turning her attention to Mister Fish, she asked, "Is what they're saying true?"

"I wouldn't know," he conceded. "I was too busy looking at the kneazle to notice the owl's eyes."

"What kneazle? I thought this was an owl attack?" If those idiots at dispatch had sent her on a troll's errand again, someone was in for a good telling off. Or at least a threatening memo. Sternly worded. Probably sent anonymously.

"Oh Miss, perhaps I can explain," politely offered yet another member of the mob. This one had slicked back hair and was dressed in fancy robes in multiple shades of black a few years out of fashion but clean nonetheless. Several gold chains of various length, each adorned with fantastic jewels, casually circled his neck, earning him the nickname Fancy Pants. "There was an owl, as these good men have said, and it did indeed attempt indecent things upon that gentleman's head. But before too much damage could be done a great, furry kneazle leapt into the air and caught it by the neck."

"Had the thing eaten 'fore it hit the ground," cackled Beaver Boy.

"You idiots called the Auror's Office for a cat eating a bird?" the Auror hissed. She shifted her weight, wishing she was home so she could straighten up.

"It's not so much the kneazle eating the owl, Miss," responded Fancy Pants. "It's more what happened after. You see, for just a moment, right after it ate the owl, the kneazle glowed."

"Glowy … glowy … glowed," sang out Goldy, whose finger had moved to a different and entirely unsanitary location.

"Yes, quite," Fancy Pants said with a look of disdain on his face. "But the truly bizarre thing is what happened next. A great beast of a hound … quite grim-like in fact … belonging to that fellow, I believe," he added, using his cane to indicate the last man of the group – a dark, foreign looking man of unusual height (who the Auror instantly identified as Foreign Guy) – "broke free from its chain and attacked the kneazle."

"Gobbled 'em up, it did," said Goldy.

For the first time, the Auror noticed the dog sitting near Foreign Guy. "That your dog," she asked him.

Foreign Guy nodded his head sharply in reply.

She turned her attention to the dog. At first glance it was indeed grim-like, but its white and brown fur (complete with bow on its head) and pretty pink collar rather spoiled that image. Foreign Guy apparently had managed to reconnect the dog to its chain, a fact that displeased the dog greatly.

That thought – that the dog was displeased – brought the Auror up short and she turned her attention back to the dog's face. Yes, she was certain the dog looked displeased. There was something in the set of its jaw, in the way the skin around its nose crinkled, in the hate and loathing shining in its bright red eyes.

The dog smirked at the Auror before slowly advancing on her and growling. It looked quite ready to attack.

"Look out!" a voice shouted from farther down the alley. Everyone, including the dog, turned their attention toward the sound.

And at that exact moment, a cow plopped down directly between the Auror and the dog.

A squat little farmer came running toward the group. "How many times have I told you no trying to leap over the moon," he shouted at the cow.

"Moo," the cow replied.

"Grrrrrr," the dog threatened.

And then … in a move considered bizarre even in the magical world … the cow bent down and swallowed the dog whole.

Beaver Boy froze in place; Goldy fainted; Mister Fish slapped a hand over his mouth and gagged; Fancy Pants cleared his throat conspicuously; Foreign Guy jangled the now empty chain and cried, "my dog!"

The cow, now done chewing, glowed red.

"Oh dear," said the farmer.

"Looks like I picked the wrong week to stop snorting pixie dust," muttered the Auror as she pulled a little gold box from her pocket.

"You, ah, wouldn't mind sharing some of that, would ya?" asked Mister Fish.

It would be some hours later when the impromptu party broke up. By then the Auror and Mister Fish were engaged, Beaver Boy had shaved his head (and been renamed Egghead), Goldy had found religion, Foreign Guy and the farmer had bonded over the cow, and no one could recall the events that had lead to their gathering in the first place.

* * *

><p><strong>1400 hours, 6 November, 1981<br>Office of the Headmaster  
>Hogwarts School of Witchcraft &amp; Wizardry, Scotland<strong>

Albus Dumbledore sucked on a Blood Pop as he considered little Harry Potter's miraculous survival. The rest of the world believed the child's survival meant Lord Voldemort's death. In his gut, he knew better. His first thought had been that Tom has used the worst sort of magic to tie his soul to this plane of existence, but he couldn't find any evidence of such. If only he had some clue … some indication that Tom's soul was still here … a sighting … an unexplainable occurrence … anything.

But there was nothing. Not a single Auror's report to indicate something was stirring. The nanny hadn't even had anything of value in her statement, or so Moody had told him. Meanwhile, he had a mountain of paperwork for the Wizengamot, and someone had transfigured the statue of Boris the Bewildered into Belinda the Bewildered, and that girl's bathroom on the second floor was flooded _again_, and Flitwick and Hooch had gotten into _another_ fist fight over England's chances at the World Cup.

Voldemort, he decided, was a problem for another day. He'd keep watching those Auror's Logs for signs of Voldemort, but otherwise, he had too much to do. Besides, he had (the poor dear) Severus Snape's 'promise' to report anything he heard or saw – and on a related note, what a great professor he was shaping up to be!

Tossing out his empty sucker stick, Albus picked up the Wizengamot file for one Mundungus Fletcher, an otherwise enjoyable fellow who'd convinced a series of beauty-challenged witches his specially charmed precious metal jewelry (which was actually made of tin) would make them irresistible to the opposite sex. Unfortunately for him, one of his customers was the prosecutor's granddaughter, and the old man wanted to send him to Azkaban for 50 years. Oh dear.

Voldemort was already out of mind.

* * *

><p><strong>2330 hours, 7 November, 1981<br>Witness Interview Lounge (the hideous pink one, not the nice blue one)  
>Ministry of Magic, Department of Magical Law Enforcement<strong>

"Mister Snape," the sweet, soft voice began as two Aurors entered the room he'd been sequestered in for what seemed like half of his life. "I trust your wait wasn't too much of an inconvenience?"

Severus quickly sized up the pair. The woman was a short blond with a round face and matching waist. She smiled too much. Her partner, and he hoped that was in the literal sense for the man's hand was in a rather delicate area of her person, was of average height and weight with dark hair and gold-trimmed glasses, making Severus wonder if he might be an older, duller-looking cousin of the recently deceased Potter. He thought this man might have been a few levels above him at Hogwarts, but decided it wasn't worth his effort to recall more than that.

Weaklings, both of them.

"The tea tastes like mop water," he sneered. "These pink walls are giving me a headache and that newspaper is from 1972. I have been here for nearly four hours and you are the fifth Auror to have shuffled through. I don't think inconvenient is strong enough to describe my wait. And it's _Professor_, if you please."

"Oh. I'm so sorry about that," she said in her kindest voice, making the hairs on the back of Severus' neck curl.

The man didn't respond … he might not have even heard … his hand continued its indecent caress of the woman's body.

"I'm Alice Longbottom," she smiled, "and this is my husband Frank."

So these were the infamous Longbottoms. Funny, he'd always heard them described as fearless and deadly, but seeing them now, he'd have pegged them as comic relief. Sadly, it seemed the Dark Lord had chosen wisely. (As if the busted up house and lightening-shaped scar hadn't been proof enough.)

"We're here to take your statement," she helpfully added.

"Yes, I'm certain it will have changed dramatically from the other four times I've told it – oh wait, I haven't been able to tell it yet because you've kept me waiting _for four hours_!"

"Mister Snape," the man testily began. His hand finally dropped from his wife's body.

"It's Professor," Severus again corrected. "And I would dearly love to fulfill my obligation by passing my information to an Auror, so if you two could actually get to doing your jobs it would be much appreciated."

"Professor Snape, there is no need to get nasty," Frank chastised as if he were a small child. His hand – naughty thing that it was – moved to his wife's shoulder and began massaging. "These are happy times … golden times … for evil has once again been defeated. We're finally free from the clutches of darkness to live our lives again! You should be rejoicing with the rest of us."

"I do not rejoice the death of a friend," Severus simply replied.

The Longbottoms were saved from making an awkward reply as the door to the room was thrust open and a couple tumbled in.

These two, Severus noticed at once, were a perfectly matched pair. He was a portly little man and she was a toad of a woman. Neither was much to look at, even by Severus' understandably lenient standards.

The intruders came to an abrupt halt as they noticed the occupants of the room. "Oh, sorry … thought this room'd be empty," the man rushed to explain.

"No problem, Fudge," Frank said with a roll of his eyes. "I think the office down the hall is clear."

"Oh, er, Shacklebolt is down there. Telling some story about a couple of wizards who swear their cow was eaten by a thestral. Can you imagine that? It's all this celebrating, I should think. It's brought all the crazies out of the woodwork. Had to send the poor chaps to St. Mungo's for evaluation. Well, I'll just … see if the lunch room is free. Carry on."

With a final apology, the interlopers backed out of the room, pulling the door closed behind them. Unnoticed, it didn't latch.

"Could we get on with it," Severus ground out. "I would like to be home by Christmas."

"Of course, Professor," Alice sweetly agreed. She sat across and slightly to the right of Severus and pulled out parchment and quill. Reaching across the table, she gave his hand a comforting pat. "Whenever you're ready, begin where you feel comfortable."

How did this woman defy the Dark Lord three times? By hugging him to death?

"Very well. Many years ago there was a young boy who felt he didn't get the respect he so justly deserved. He spent countless hours –"

"Maybe not quite that far back," Frank cut in. "Honestly Alice," he added, getting his wife's attention. "It's finally safe to leave the house again and this is how we spend the time? Questioning delusional idiots?"

"He's right here, Frank," she hissed to her husband. "Let's just get this over with so we can get home. We have tomorrow off. We can leave Neville with your Mum and just have some fun." Turning back to Severus, she added, "let's start again, shall we?"

With a dramatic, put-out sigh, Severus acquiesced. "It was about two years ago when I first came to believe that You-Know-Who's quest for immortality was not just idle chatter …"

Unknown to Severus and the Longbottoms, someone was eavesdropping outside their door. Floating beside the impeccably dressed wizard was parchment and quick-quotes quill, diligently scribing the Professor's story. True, the tale was a bit dry and depressing, and though Gilderoy didn't know how he would use the information, he wasn't one to waste opportunity.

The mention of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was certainly an interesting angle … perhaps he could do something there, but it would have to be unique … He Who Is No More … no, that angle's sure to be used to death … Prancing with Parselmouths maybe … no, too flippant, and who prances these days?

Oh, but now that was interesting. A possessed thestral certainly had possibilities.

)( )( )(

"You're saying that a thestral came to you and just stared at you so you followed it?" Frank's skepticism was hard to miss. Or easy to find. In other words, he laid it on really thick. "Do thestrals often come to you and ask to be followed?"

"No, usually it's fluffy bunny rabbits," snapped Severus. "What do you think, you …you … dunderhead! What part of this story is so hard for you to understand? A dangerous magical creature, displaying more intelligence than one of its kind should possess, with glowing red eyes matching a certain recently defeated Dark Lord came to me. It glared at me and I knew it wanted to be followed. I would have been a fool not to do so."

"And so you followed it to Holyhead?" Frank pressed.

"Oh Frank," Alice gushed, turning her attention to her husband. "Do you remember when we went Holyhead to see the Harpies? We got caught in that rain storm."

Smiling to his wife, he nodded, "and your robes got so heavy you had to take them off to move."

Jumping from her seat, Alice reached forward and grasped her husband's hands in her own. "You did, too! And you weren't wearing anything under, you sly old dog."

"You weren't much better," he replied as he gave her hands a light tug, bringing her body against his. "I still can't recall how we ever found that little Inn."

Alice blushed a lovely shade of red and dipped her head so her forehead was resting on her husband's chest. Frank's hand (and by now Severus very much wanted to hex it right off) was now softly tracing up and down her back.

"I'm still here," Severus called out.

"Do you remember the bath tub?" she was asking … and Severus had to swallow down the bile.

)( )( )(

The Tell Tale Thestral … no, too Poe … Threatening Thestrals … too hard to pronounce … if only I could actually see the beasts … perhaps if I attend a public execution … or I could hang around one of those seedy pubs, people are always getting themselves killed in those places …

)( )( )(

They're seconds away from kissing, Severus thought. He cleared his throat loudly, taking an overly long time doing so. The sound made Frank and Alice hesitate the briefest of seconds, but then Frank whispered something Severus couldn't hear, Alice responded with "oh Frank", and their lips locked in a snog that reminded Severus of those Hufflepuffs he'd found in the Astronomy Tower three weeks ago.

Indulging in the memory, Severus nearly smiled. He might be the newest and youngest Professor on staff but he already had a reputation for sniffing out the best hidden couples.

The jarring thump of Alice being pushed against the table brought him back to the present.

"Should I just carry on by myself then?" he sneered. The effect was lost, however, as the two Aurors apparently couldn't hear while their mouths were workings. Must have been Gryffindors.

"Frank," she sighed when his lips moved to her ear, "it's been so long … I've been so scared."

"I know love," he cooed – yes, cooed! – back, "but it's all over now and we can live again."

"I'll just write this up myself, shall I?" Severus asked. One might have thought he was being sarcastic; but sadly, he was quite serious. Thanks to a certain promise he'd made Albus Dumbledore, he literally couldn't leave until he'd made his report. Oh, but the old man would pay for this.

There was no verbal response to his question. A few seconds later Alice did shove the parchment she'd been writing on in his general direction, but that might have been more to get it out of her own way (as she was now reclining on the table) than to help him.

"I was explaining how this thestral, which had an air of menace to it, had led me to a copse of trees near Holyhead," Severus recounted. "Holyhead, you questioned. Yes, Holyhead, I would have replied."

One of the Aurors moaned.

Forgoing the weak tea, Severus pulled a whiskey bottle from his robe pocket and helped himself to a hearty gulp.

"Why ever Holyhead, you would ask. The Dark Lord had a house there … an old cottage on some forgotten estate, I would explain. How do you know that, you would ask. And I would _tsk_ and carelessly motion to my arm and you would understand my meaning."

Alice fell fully onto the table with Frank on top of her. "Gaahg," she said.

"Hag?" Severus repeated, "why yes, there was a hag. However did you know?" He took another healthy drink of his whiskey.

)( )( )(

That's it – a book about hags! Now that's a best seller in the making. After all, who doesn't love whimsical tales of creatures who eat small children?

)( )( )(

"I confess I've never seen such a horrific sight," Severus was saying, "and I've seen horrific sights, as seeing that hag eat the thestral. And when I say eat, I mean devour. Whole thing happened so fast I could hardly make sense of it." He paused to take a swallow. "Come now, you would say, surely you exaggerate? … No, I assure you, I am not one to embellish. The truth is usually extraordinary enough as it is, wouldn't you agree?"

"Oh, Merlin yes," Alice moaned.

"Quite," Severus agreed with another drink. He pulled back the bottle to read the label, thinking this was really good stuff and he might have to actually thank Sprout for the gift.

Alice begged for more.

"But of course," Severus agreed. "You see, after the hag had eaten the thestral, she clutched her stomach, groaned like a wounded dragon, and keeled over. Now I know what you are thinking," he said with a wave of the hand holding the bottle, "keel isn't a very clinical term. I agree; but there is simply no better way to describe it. She keeled over."

For the briefest of seconds, Severus turned his eyes to the couple on the table. Frank's robes had ridden up so Severus could see where the man's black compression stocking ended and his pasty, hair-covered legs began. Severus nearly chugged what remained in his bottle.

He rushed to finish his tale. "Interesting tale, Snape, you would say, but that's a case for the Beings office. Ah, I counter, you haven't heard the best part. There's more, you question. Certainly, I reply. At that point I imagine I would lean close and whisper … _the Dark Lord_. You would scoff while your wife gasped, but you would otherwise stay quiet so I can complete my tale.

"A strange black mist rose from the hag's dead body, I would say, taking an oddly human form. No doubt I would make hand gestures to approximate the dimensions of the mist. Perhaps at that point one of you would be skeptical, but the other would find it a fascinating tale. What happened to the mist, that one would ask. It began to move toward me, I would explain, but inches away from touching me, it's head – and before you could interrupt I would point out the mist, being humanoid, would clearly have a head – turned back to the dead hag. Then it slowly backed several feet away from me. You would interrupt again to ask why I don't use metric measurements and I would admonish you to focus – and then I would tell you, with a voice that no doubt relayed I had reached the end of my tale, that the mist turned and fled."

)( )( )(

Fantastic. But his hag can't just drop dead … no, it needs to be a tragic and heroic tale … show the human side of the beast … Hunting with Hags – still too harsh … Haggling with Hags – alliterate, but no … Holiday with Hags. Yes! I can make the best seller list for certain with this.

)( )( )(

"Quite the tale, you say." Severus finally continued in a louder-than-necessary voice. "And no doubt you are wondering why you should believe it. Why would I lie, I would ask in return. Some want the fame, you would explain, others want to feel important. I would assure you I want none of those. I am merely fulfilling the requirements of my agreement with Dumbledore and the Wizengamot, I explain."

He risked a glance at the Aurors. Alice was now sitting on top of her husband, who was lying on the table with his arms spread wide above his head. Thankfully they were both reasonably clothed. He diverted his eyes to the ceiling. "Have I explained the situation sufficiently to be freed from this purgatory?"

"Naughty kitty," Alice Longbottom giggled. "Does kitty want his belly rubbed?"

"Kitty wants his tail rubbed," Frank responded in a husky voice.

Severus made a part-gagging – part-choking sound very much like a cat coughing up a hairball.

Frank Longbottom, decorated Auror and war hero, began making his own strange sound. It was a bit like soft snoring, or a Muggle motor of some sort, or … purring.

Severus finished off his whiskey, going so far as to tap the bottom of the bottle to get every last drop. "I consider my obligation fulfilled," he said to the ceiling. "I am going now. I have to get to work on some special tea for Dumbledore as a thank you for getting me to agree to this."

Stumbling to the door, he rushed out and into the arms of a well dressed man with perfectly curled hair and a winning smile.

"Let me help you, my good man," Gilderoy Lockhart kindly offered. They walked down the hall, Severus leaning heavily on Gilderoy without even noticing. "I wonder if I could have but a moment of your time," Gilderoy added as he guided Severus toward a storage closet, his wand hidden in his hand.

* * *

><p><strong>400 hours, 12 December, 1981<br>the fallen hawthorne tree by the stream  
>Albanian Forest<strong>

Blasted bloody animals … but there are none here … just need time to regroup … _was that barking?_ … a couple of years should do it … from now on, I'm sticking with snakes.

**** end chapter ****

**Notes:** This changed so drastically from its original version, I'm not sure if you can still see the original children's song that inspired the story. Treat yourself to a warm, gooey cookie if you did.

Yea! I managed to work Gilderoy into a story. Don't you just love him? I think he's great; I picture him at a party … he tries to pick up a woman that turns out to be a guy … so he just Obliviates him … and all the witnesses … and the family owl, just to be safe. I imagine Dumbledore tried to fire him a good two or three times that year, but every time … OBLIVIATE!


	10. Albus' Blood-y Brilliant Plan

Because one should never make important decisions while under the influence. Bad, accidentally evil, things can happen. Alternately, one man's salvation is another man's evil. Take your pick.

**. **

**.**

**2 + 9 - 1 = Albus' Blood-y Brilliant Plan**

_Harry, having awaken in his dorm very early the day after the Third Task, was confused. Perfectly reasonable, considering he went to sleep in the Hospital Wing and most assuredly not wearing a 'Snape Rules Potter Drools' t-shirt, but that's not really the point. He also had questions; questions only his Headmaster (or a barmy old fool … or a fortune cookie – but how would he get one of those at Hogwarts?) could answer. Needless to say, but I shall say it anyway, he made his way to the Headmaster's office, where he politely refused both tea and lumpy yellow candies, and got straight to the point. Albus, it should be noted, popped one piece of candy into his mouth and another into his tea. It was rather early, you see, and unlike those who must have caffeine to begin their day, the Headmaster required an unhealthy dose of lemon flavored candy._

_Hem-Hem … I said 'straight to the point', Harry._

"In the graveyard," Harry said, getting straight to the point, "when Voldemort was blathering on to his Death Eaters, he complained he couldn't touch me. But that can't be right. I've been hurt by Voldemort plenty of times."

"Have you really?" Dumbledore asked in a tone of voice that clearly indicated he believed no such thing as he watched the candy melt in his tea. "I certainly don't remember any such occurrence."

"Really? You don't remember my First Year, when he put that jinx on my broom and I nearly fell to my untimely death?" Harry's tone equally indicated disbelief.

Now, it should be pointed out that it was very, very early and that Dumbledore hadn't yet had his first candy induced rush of the day, so it's perfectly excusable that he missed the sarcasm in Harry's voice. "But you didn't fall, Harry," he calmly explained. "Your mother's love protected you." He jiggled his cup to aid the candy in its dissolution.

"I thought you said that was Snape and his quick thinking," Harry accused. He _knew_ Snape wasn't the good guy.

"Magical protection works in mysterious ways," the Headmaster replied. Off to side, Fawkes, who had up to that point been half asleep, farted.

Harry looked around the room, but seeing no one else present, shot an accusing look at the professor. Waving off the smell, he complained. "I pulled three muscles in my arms hanging from that broom!" For emphasis, he pointed to his poor, mistreated arm. Clearly the old man didn't understand how much something like that hurt.

"Those were caused by your attempt to maintain hold on the broom, not by Professor Quirrell's attempt to dislodge you. His attempt caused you no harm." His point made and his candy sufficiently dissolved, Dumbledore drained his tea in one gulp.

Considering how hot the drink should have been, Harry began to wonder if was really tea. Dumbledore, his thirst apparently quenched, patiently waited for his poor boy to continue. The majority of the portraits continued to sleep, worn out from a late night of spying on the staff and comparing notes afterwards. Fawkes pretended to also be asleep. In fact, the most notable sound in the office, aside from clocks ticking, silver things whirring, lemon candy being crunched, and the various faint noises Harry could neither name nor locate, was a slight humming from the Sorting Hat, who was busy composing next year's song. It sounded to be a lively little ditty.

Finally, Harry decided to push on with his point. "Alright, but I was definitely hurt when he tried to steal the Philosopher's Stone. I mean, yeah, my touch killed Quirrell instead, but I spent something like a week and a half in the Hospital Wing."

"Again, that was not technically caused by Voldemort," Dumbledore patiently explained, mentally adding 'a week and a half my brother's goat!'

"Yes it was," the teenager loudly insisted. "You told me so. You said you'd barely made it in time and that I almost didn't make it." If he'd been standing, Harry would have stomped his foot for emphasis, but he felt it wouldn't have the same effect while sitting, so he settled for dramatically crossing his arms with a harsh head nod.

"Yes, well …," Dumbledore trailed off, seemingly at a loss for words. To buy himself time, or maybe to give himself some sugary strength, he popped another lemon thing in his mouth, sucking extra hard for maximum taste and courage.

"You see, Harry … when I arrived that day, you had just fought off Quirrell – valiantly, I might add – and Voldemort's spirit had left his body and was hovering menacingly. You, on the other hand, looked very tired but otherwise no worse for wear. I felt I really had no choice but to turn my attention toward detaining Voldemort. You would agree, would you not, that life would have been much simpler these last few years had I succeeded?"

Harry reluctantly nodded his agreement, as simpler did sound pretty good to him.

"I chose a very powerful freezing hex – and I think you can appreciate the choice, for such a freezing hex, being not easy at all, therefore had to be the right one. But Alas! I had failed to take into account his gaseous spirit form. Gaseous, as you no doubt learned in Muggle school, is neither solid nor liquid, and as such is not a very good conductor for freezing-ness. The spell passed straight through his spirit and hit you instead. Why, I still remember the sound of your frozen self slamming into the stone floor." In what he would later classify as 'a moment of weakness', he openly chuckled at the memory.

Harry wanted very much to interrupt with something along the lines of 'what the hell', but all that came out was a rather mousy sounding, "hhhuuu". Fawkes, hearing the sound and believing breakfast might be scurrying around the room, perked up.

"I reasoned that a little hypothermia never killed anyone, whereas malevolent earthbound spirits can and often do, so I rushed forward, hoping to trick him into floating into the Mirror of Erised. (I dare say no one would ever look in the Mirror and want _that_, am I right Harry?) Unfortunately, the heel of my very manly buckle-boots stuck in the uneven stone floor, tripping me and causing me to stumble forward, accidentally kicking your frozen body in the process. I hadn't realized how close to Severus' magical fire line we had strayed. Oh, the stench was horrid. I didn't think I would ever get the smell out of my robes, and those were my best Going to the Ministry robes.

"But Harry," he said, suddenly pulling himself up to look all serious and Headmasterly. He even added the patented (U.K. # 736453-wiz) over-the-glasses glare. "Know that at this point, your safety was my greatest concern. I chose to save your life, even knowing it would allow Voldemort to escape. Sadly, magical fires aren't easy to extinguish – if it had been it would have been a rather poor obstacle, wouldn't you agree?"

He paused to allow Harry to agree, yet somehow failed to notice Harry's lack of agreement. Or his obvious signs of shock.

"I tried jets of water and shower charms and even an intricate rain dance, but in the end it took a tidal wave spell to put out the magical fire. It was only afterward, when I found you floating face down in the water, that I realized how lucky we were that your mother's love had protected you from Voldemort yet again."

"Ggah," Harry finally managed to say.

"I believe the word you are looking for is gratudious, which is Latin for gratitude. And you're welcome."

Nearby, Fawkes made a noise that snapped Harry out of his stupor. It could be described as a laughing noise, or just as easily a merry chirping noise, or, as Crabbe might say, 'pretty birdy make funny sound'. It should not, however, be described as mournful, unless you've completely misread the situation . But in any event, it _was_ a noise and it did, indeed, come from Fawkes and it did, in fact, snap Harry out of his stupor. And Hogwarts was a better place for it.

Turning his attention back to his Headmaster, Harry carried on his argument. (Which, in case you've forgotten – for I can promise you Dumbledore has – was that Voldemort has, in fact, harmed Harry over the years.) "Second year – the basilisk! Tom Riddle commanded it and it nearly killed me. Argue your way out of that one."

Dumbledore took a few minutes to remember their topic, then responded in a very authoritative manner. "Well now, that was a special case. You see, the memory inside the diary was of a sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle. And at 16, Tom hadn't yet killed Lily Potter and so he was not yet susceptible to her deathly love." Pleased that his own genius had once again saved the day, he popped a congratulatory candy into his mouth.

Harry tipped his head sideways as he replayed key points of their conversation in his mind. After all, he was certain he should be winning the argument, so he needed to figure out where he was going wrong. "Wait a minute … do you think maybe when he said touch, instead of meaning it euphemistically like mobsters do when they say the law 'can't touch 'em', he meant it literally, as in 'make physical contact'?"

"Er … the second one?" From somewhere behind Harry, one portrait snorted while another slapped himself in the forehead. Fawkes' laughing noise reached an all-time high and he peed his perch.

"Oh," said a deflated-sounding Harry (only without the hissing, as there were no snakes nearby), "then he can hurt me after all. Right?"

"Sure he can, Harry," Dumbledore happily agreed, his candy-induced high having properly kicked in. "That's what I've been trying to explain to you. Maybe I should tell you the crucial piece I've been keeping to myself? See, your Aunt Tunie sealed the charm when she took you in with the morning milk delivery." He paused, frowning deeply as he crashed from his high. Statistically, lemon candy highs are the shortest lived, making lemon candy addiction a much maligned and looked-down-upon addiction by the Addictive Substances community. But in Dumbledore's defense, he can't be good at everything, and if you're going to fail at something it might as well be your choice of addictive substances.

Dumbledore cleared his throat and continued, with as much dignity as he could muster, considering at this point he just wanted to go back to bed and curl up with his stuffed demiguise (good heavens, its a toy, not an actual stuffed creature – he never sleeps with that!) and his autographed picture of Gilderoy Lockhart ('_to the best wizard in the room right now besides myself, much love to me, Gilderoy' PS – nice robes but that hair is atrocious_). Yes, he bravely continued doing his best to ruin Harry's day … "Now, as long as you can call home the place where your mother's blood dwells, there you cannot be touched or harmed by Voldemort. Touched _or_ harmed, Harry … and I'm certain in this instance we are covering both the mobster and the literal meanings."

"Okay … but what's to stop him from just sending one of his Death Eaters into the house to get me?" Fawkes, sensing it was a pivotal moment, somehow managed to chirp out the Final Jeopardy theme song, which neither Harry nor Dumbledore recognized, as neither had a taste for American television.

To Harry's surprise, Dumbledore answered within the allotted 30 seconds. "Much as we both agree that the actions of the basilisk are considered Voldemort's actions, we can guess, with nearly 60% certainty – plus or minus 5% - that Death Eater actions would also be considered Voldemort's actions, and would therefore be ineffective in your home. Assuming, of course, that he ordered the attack and they were not acting on their tuition. And let's face it, aside from Lucius Malfoy, the whole lot do seem unable to wipe their own arses without prior instruction, don't they? As Lucius wouldn't be caught naked with a dead hooker in the Muggle world, or alternately dead with a naked hooker … either way, I think we can safely presume he won't be attacking your home any time soon. No; I'm certain you're perfectly safe at home on Privet Drive."

"Problem - you keep saying 'home'," Harry explained, glad to have finally gotten straight to the point. "I don't call Privet Drive home."

"Oh," the Headmaster smartly replied. "What do you call it? Your domicile? Your digs? Haunt? Crib?"

"Sometimes the-place-that-happiness-forgot or the Surrey Zoo, but mostly The Third Level of Hell."

"Close enough," Dumbledore assured him. "The key is really in the dwelling, not the homing."

"Right," Harry agreed. After all, experience had taught him to expect some such loads of dung. As luck would have it, living with the Dursleys had taught Harry to quickly adapt to any dung thrown his way. He was very good at dodging dung, which he felt was the real reason he was so talented at seeking. Dudley's dung, no matter how figurative it was, carried quite the wallop. "It's just, if I'm safe as long as I live where my mother's blood dwells, and my blood – and therefore my mother's blood – currently dwells in Voldemort, then it stands to reason that I would be safe living with him."

"Alas! An excellent point!" He was so pleased the boy had accepted the importance of living with his mother's blood. Pubescent teenagers were normally contrary beings. "You can certainly live with … no, wait, that cannot be right."

Looking down at his hands, Dumbledore began ticking things off on his fingers as he muttered to himself … "Lily dies … Petunia's doorstep … Quirrell melts … cream cheese … Marge Dursley". He did an excellent job of tuning out Fawkes cackling.

"I have to assume he's staying with his best mate Lucius," Harry cheerfully continued. "I think I would rather enjoy strutting around Malfoy Manor. Draco and I could finally become the best mates we were meant to be, had Ron not poisoned me against him by being so darn friendly. Do you think maybe he'll teach me how he slicks back his hair without it looking as greasy as Snape's? Maybe give me some pointers on how to cultivate proper goons?"

"… obliviate … sharing candy with Dudley … rebirthday …"

"Mind you, Voldemort has to be a step up from living with Vernon all these years, homicidal tendencies included. Maybe he'll let me get my own pet snake. I think I'd like a cobra. Cobra's are awesome. I'd name him Crucio, so if I ever get arrested for using the spell I can just claim I was trying to call my pet and forgot my wand was in my hand."

"… but then he touched Harry's cheek …"

"You think Voldemort would let me call him Uncle? Voldemort is such a mouthful, and I'm never clear on if the 'T' is silent or not. It's supposed to be, I think. French, and all that; but most people do pronounce it. I can't figure out why He Who Lives to Curse didn't put a stop to the mispronunciation right at the beginning. Maybe that's why he doesn't want people saying his name – 'cause they always say it wrong and it's been so long that he'd come across as a fool if he corrected people _now_."

"Woot," agreed Hedwig, who had just flown into the office. Landing on his knee, she stuck her leg out so he could take the attached note. It was from Ron, who was probably worried about where he'd disappeared to. He opened the note, thinking how his friends were the best. He really needed to let them know how much he appreciated their love and support. As Dumbledore was still muttering to himself, he took a second to read. 'Since when does my baby sister have knockers?'.

Harry gave Hedwig a confused look, but she merely shrugged. Her job complete, Hedwig left, leaving Harry to contemplate Ginny Weasley's recent growth spurt on his own.

"I must admit, Harry," Albus finally spoke in a normal volume, "that your logic is sound. I cannot find a single flaw beyond the obvious. Tell me, how do you propose to trick Voldemort into agreeing to let you live with him?" Dumbledore did not, Harry noticed, pronounce the T.

"Maybe I can just go with Snape when he finally makes his appearance? Once I'm there he won't really have a choice. I'll be like mold on cheese, like a cockroach after a nuclear bomb, like Ron at the dinner table … in other words, impossible to get rid of."

"That's Professor Snape," Dumbledore automatically corrected. "And aside from the fact that he's already left, there's the little matter that he's just as likely to dump you in a Muggle insane asylum, claiming you think you're a wizard and internally laughing as your attempts to explain merely convince them of his case, than actually deliver you to Voldemort."

"True," Harry conceded, "but the fact remains now that there's an alternative to living with the Dursleys, no matter how horrible it is, there's nothing short of crowning me King that will get me back to their house."

Ever the astute individual, Albus quickly picked up on the fact that Harry hadn't outright refused. And thus, the bargaining began …

:D

As Leaving Day dawned, Harry was of two minds. Was he happy or was he sad? On one side, there was the guilty mourning of Cedric Diggory's death. On the other, the barely contained glee of knowing this summer would be the best of his life. The last couple of days his moods had fluctuated so fast and so frequently that just this morning over breakfast, he'd spotted Hermione reading up on Split Personality Disorder. He almost explained his conflicting feels to her, but a little voice in the back of mind told him not to.

After eating, Harry blindly followed Ron down to the carriages – at least that's what he claimed had happened. Given Hermione's new-found love for psychology, he felt it best not to mention the freaky horse-bird thing attached to the carriages that Ron clearly didn't see.

Entering their carriage, he found Hermione, Neville, and surprisingly Ginny, already seated. Luckily, Ron choose to sit as far from Neville and his hungry-looking plant as possible, leaving Harry the seat next to Ginny. Who was casually dressed in slacks and a blouse that she'd clearly outgrown. It appeared Ron had understated his case. Ginny not only had … knockers … but they were quite impressive. Harry made a mental note to find out who she was dating and casually mention the name to Fred and George as he offered them his Tri-wizard winnings. He was certain they'd take the hint.

"When can you come?" Ron suddenly asked as the carriage began to move.

Others might be confused by Ron's out-of-nowhere question, but years of practice gave Harry a firm understanding of Ronisms. Like back in First Year, Ron randomly asked during a lull at the dinner table, "do you think they're real?" Everyone else thought he had decided to join Seamus' discussion of Professor Sinistra, when in fact he was asking Hermione about moon landings. And Third Year, when Ron had suddenly asked "did you see how long it is" as they were leaving the showers, earning himself an unfortunate reputation for several months; only Harry knew he was talking about Hagrid's newest pet. So this question, Harry understood.

"Er … I won't be visiting this summer, Ron," Harry said as he wiped his chin. "But you lot can visit me. Especially you, Ginny – so you can learn about the Muggle world, yeah?"

"Why can't you come? It's practically criminal to leave you with your relatives all summer," Ron all but yelled.

Harry's self-satisfied smirk, while sending Neville into a potion's class flashback, reminded both of the girls entirely too much of the twins after a perfectly executed prank, putting them both on alert. Ron had missed the by-play, as he was trying to watch Neville's plant without looking like he was watching it. He was certain that every time it leaned his way, it was rubbing its petals together in perfect mimicry of a hungry wolf licking its lips.

"Albus and I had a nice little chat the other morning," Harry announced. "He really wants me to stay at my Aunt's and I really want to have a decent life, so we came to an agreement. I stay at the Dursley house for the entire summer, have a guard with me whenever I leave the property, and won't send or receive letters by owl post." He had to hold up his hand to stop Hermione's indignant outburst.

"Oh, and I'm forbidden from naming any pet after any of the Unforgivables – ever. In return, I get Dobby." He had to stop another Hermione outburst. "He'll do all the chores my Aunt normally has me do, make certain I have plenty of good food to eat, talk to me to keep me from going barmy, darn my socks, carry messages between my house and the Burrow, and trim my nose hairs – that one was Dobby's contribution, and quite honestly it scares me a bit, but needs must. And yes, Dumbledore will continue to pay Dobby's salary."

"That's a good compromise, Harry," Hermione had to agree. "Though I'm surprised you got the Headmaster to agree to so much."

"That's not everything. He also has to pay me a weekly allowance of 8 sickles and 10 knuts, converted into Muggle money during the summer months, of course. He's giving me an old text book that has all sorts of helpful notes in it so I can get my 'O' in Potions next year, and neither he nor Sirius is allowed to give me The Talk – I've asked for Bill to do it – I mean, he's got a part-veela chasing _him_, right? – but that's not guaranteed since Dumbledore can't speak for him. Let's see … I get to call him Albus when we're not at school, he has to wear somber, tasteful robes to the Halloween Feast, order Snape to say the phrase 'even though you are nothing like your father' every time he takes points from me, and last but not least, he has to announce at the next Wizengamot session that his brother wasn't the one charming goats. Oh, and as I already said, I got permission for you to visit any time you like."

"How did he ever get your relatives to agree?" the girls asked simultaneously. Harry and Neville instantly braced themselves. The witches' version of 'jinx' could get rather catty, and Ginny's buttons were already stressed to their limits. Proper gentlemen would have put a stop to the nonsense before it got out of hand (or out of shirt, in Ginny's case). Our two heroes-in-training shared silly grins instead.

Ron missed the fun (which is a shame, as the view he missed of Hermione's mid-drift would have kept Mr. Wood – don't ask … seriously, just don't – happy for the summer. Unfortunately, or fortunately as the case may be, Neville's plant had chosen that exact moment to lunge for Ron's knee, but his surveillance paid off and he was able to rebuke it with minimal effort and blood loss.

As Ginny emerged victorious, Harry cleared his throat and answered the question he'd almost forgotten they'd asked. "Not my concern. This is going to be the best summer ever, and I expect all four of you to visit often." It had to be assumed he was including Ron, Hermione and Neville in that count, as his eyes hadn't left Ginny the entire time he spoke. Probably had something to do with the button she'd lost. "By the way, Ginny, who is it you're dating again?"

:D

His orders were clear … pretty clear ... mostly clear ... he got the gist of it.

Find the one called Potter and Flerp him. (Why the humans insisted on calling it 'Kissing' was beyond him. Honestly, it was nothing like the disgusting things they did with their mouths and tongues!) Should be easy enough, as long as Clyde didn't go mad again and try to Flerp one of those four-legged humans with the fur and the claws and the really sharp teeth. An entire legion of Dark Creatures' robes had been ripped to shreds because of that miscalculation, and every time they went to the tailor for new robes, someone always ended up Flerping the employees before the new robes were ready. Sometimes it sucked being a Dementor.

Finding Little Whinging was easy enough as it was clearly marked on the map he'd bought at the petrol station before he'd Flerped the attendant. Of course, it was only _afterward_ that he'd realized the map wasn't detailed enough. Isn't that always the case?

Clyde had suggested they take the Knight Bus, but their orders were to be discrete (or use concrete – the witch's voice had been so sugary it had actually made his ear-like indentations bleed). Since he was pretty certain it had been the first one, the Knight Bus was out, so gliding it was.

They knew they were close when they found the lady with the cats. They could sense the magic swirling around her. Not strong enough to be a witch. A squib then, unless Clyde was actually right for once and she was a shape-shifter from the planet Varcon. Stupid Towers of Azkaban intercepting stupid Muggle transmissions! And to think, wizards thought it was the proximity to _them_ that made the inmates insane.

Cat lady, it turned out, knew exactly where to find the Potter boy. She was very helpful … mistook the two of them for something called Jehovah's Witnesses … offered to take them home for cake and tea. He thanked her for her help and politely refused. Then Clyde Flerped her. Said she tasted like cabbage.

Drabbit! To get so close to their prey, only to be blocked by that diabolic Muggle invention, the doorknob. If only he had opposable thumbs, he would have Potter in a heartbeat. Well, if he had a heartbeat. You know what he meant.

He told Clyde to stay back by the lamppost and approached the door.

:D

The family – mother, father, son, and unwanted burden – were sitting in their perfectly normal family room, watching a documentary on mulching to varying degrees of interest when there was a knocking on the front door. It was an ominous knock, if something as simple as a door-knocking can be called ominous. Considering the sudden chill in the air, the unnatural darkness outside the window, and his abrupt desire to dye his hair green, pierce several body parts, and listen to Evanescence, Harry decided ominous was a very good description.

"Someone's at the door, boy," Vernon bellowed.

"I ain't your house-elf, Muggle," Harry bellowed back. It was Ginny who'd suggested that every time they called him anything other than Harry (be it boy, freak, hooligan, or whatnot) he would reply with a name of his own. Muggle and Nitwit were his favorites, though after catching Dudley with a certain magazine he'd also adopted perv-boy.

The knocking came again.

Not wanting to miss the promised discussion of oak versus cedar, or perhaps because he was wedged into his seat too tightly, Vernon stretched his neck forward and called out, "who is it?"

A quiet, almost timid voice called back, "UNICEF."

"We gave at the office," Vernon bellowed. "Lazabouts," he muttered as he grabbed a handful of peanuts, dropping several on the floor in the process.

"You told them, darling," Petunia assured him.

_knock-knock_

"Now what … _who is it_," he called again.

"Flower delivery."

"Flowers! Oh Vernon, you remembered today's the anniversary of our third date. You angel!" Not noticing Vernon had no clue what she was talking about, Petunia jumped up and rushed from the room so she could answer the door and get her flowers.

Harry heard the door open, heard a shuffling sound (much like feet being dragged across the floor) followed by a what sounded like _'flerrrrp'_, though that sound was cut off when the door slammed shut.

As no one else seemed concerned, Harry turned his attention back to the telly, quietly humming 'My Immortal' to himself.

A few minutes later … _knock-knock_.

"Pet, get the door," Vernon called out, but he got no answer.

_knock-knock_

"Who is it," Vernon bellowed, quite upset at being interrupted again.

"Jehovah's Witness," the visitor replied.

"Dudley, get rid of the pests," Vernon told his son.

"No way. I don't want to miss if they mulch then water, or water then mulch."

"Fine," Vernon grumbled. He knew he couldn't complain for he'd been the one to suggest Dudley find a hobby. And while gardening wouldn't have been his first choice for his son, he had to admit that Dudders and his friend Piers certainly took extra gentle care with their big, leafy plants.

Vernon pushed himself from his recliner and stomped his way to the door. "Now see here—" Harry heard just before again hearing the shuffling feet and _flerrrrp_, not to mention the sound of the door closing.

When Vernon didn't return, Harry wondered if he could get away with changing the channel on the telly, hoping something interesting might take his mind off his mother's screams echoing in his head.

_knock-knock_

Dudley made no move. Neither did Harry, but then he, unlike his lump of a cousin, was beginning to suspect his first impression of ominous-ness was spot on.

_knock-knock_

"I'll bite," he said to Dudley before shouting, "Who is it?"

"Candygram," came the reply.

Harry started to laugh at the ridiculous reply. He turned to his cousin as if to share the joke, only to see that Dudley had already fled the room.

_shuffle, shuffle … flerrrrp … yeck …drag … slam … drag_

Harry was wondering if there would be any more knocking when Dobby walked into the room, effortlessly dragging the comatose body of his cousin behind him.

"Where does Great Harry Potter want his cousin doll? Dobby already has stuffed his Aunty and Uncly in the shed with cousin's funny plants, but there be no more room there. Dobby be keeping them alive so Great Harry Potter can still dwell with his mother's blood."

Harry sat straight and blinked.

"Dobby also wants to know if Great Harry Potter wants Dobby to get rid of the nasty Dementors at the front door so Harry Potter's friends can still come visit and Harry Potter won't be missing his flerping lessons with his Miss Weasey."

"Dobby, you're my Best Friend Ever!"

And thus was cemented a friendship for the ages. Dobby kept the bodies of Petunia, Vernon, and Dudley Dursley alive right up until Harry's protection expired at 17. It turned out very few people actually wanted to see Petunia or Vernon – Vernon's boss accepted his resignation via typed letter with little fuss, and an all-expense paid cruise to Bermuda (the Triangle, that is) took care of dear old Marge.

Harry never got his 'Talk' from Bill Weasley. He and Dobby discovered Dudley's pornography collection and they spent the rest of the summer studying extensively. If he ever had to take a job as a pizza delivery boy, or a pool boy, or a copier repairman, Harry would be prepared. He did, however, take the time to explain to Dobby that, no, sheep weren't really that friendly.

While Petunia and Vernon spent their time among the potted plants, Dudley was shrunk down to about the size of a mouse and Harry took to carrying him with him around every where he went – thus insuring he was always 'dwelling with his mother's blood'. It was especially handy when Harry and his friends went to the Ministry of Magic at the end of Fifth Year. Dumbledore had been correct in that the Death Eaters were likewise unable to harm Harry while he was 'dwelling' with his mother's blood. All he had to do was shout, "honey, I'm home," and every Death Eater spell went haywire. Instead of fighting, his friends sat back and relaxed as Harry called Dobby for help.

A shocked Cornelius Fudge could only watch as an overly enthusiastic house elf transported every Death Eater at the Ministry into an active volcano so Harry could concentrate on 'The Naughty Snake Man'.

Voldemort's attack on Harry would prove to be his downfall. Apparently even the Mother's Blood was as confused over the whole touch versus harm thing as Harry had been. Voldemort couldn't curse (harm) Harry, since the boy was dwelling with his mother's blood, but he could still touch Harry, so he settled for bitch-slapping him. Harry retaliated with a knee to where some sensitive parts should have been, although the lack of reaction on Voldemort's part was perplexing.

Then came the final showdown. Voldemort, upset at being unable to use his wand and his wrist sore from too much slapping, decided to possess Harry. Apparently, possession is more 'harm' than it is 'touch', and thus was not allowed, as all discovered when Voldemort ended up possessing Harry's shoe lace instead. It put up quite a fight before Harry managed to tie it up in knots and burn it. With his 'self' destroyed, Voldemort's shell of a body quickly died.

The day after Harry's 17th birthday, Vernon and Petunia Dursley's bodies were found hidden in a shed full of marijuana plants. It was assumed their son Dudley had killed them when they tried to stop his criminal ways. He was never found. On a totally unrelated note, Crookshanks enjoyed a special mouse-sized treat that same day.

Dobby stood beside Harry as he (the latter, not the former, that would just be silly) married Ginny Weasley. Harry stood beside Dobby as he (the elf, not the man) married Luna Lovegood. It wasn't clear if Luna knew Dobby was a house elf, or if she thought he was a really short man with deformed ears, but when she took Elf as her last name, Fred paid Hermione 20 galleons.

Thankfully, the Elfs never had children, though Luna often lamented it wasn't for lack of trying. The comments nearly drove Hermione to become an alcoholic, leading Harry to secretly wonder if that was Luna's intent all along. After all, he had it on good authority Dobby preferred knitting socks to sex and Luna firmly believed babies were delivered by storks and women only claimed otherwise to hide eating disorders. She also thought intercourse sounded 'barbaric and icky'. Unwanted authority, but good nonetheless.

Dobby and Harry partnered together as Aurors and had the best arrest record ever. When Harry became Head Auror, Dobby accepted the position of 'Being that Gets Rid of Bad Wizards trying to Harass the Great Harry Potter while He's Trying to Work', compete with desk, bowler hat, and sledgehammer.

So where is the evil in this tale?

Could it be in the unintended side effect of Harry's masterful manipulation of Albus Dumbledore? When word of his success got out, Minerva bribed him with Animagus Training in exchange for his technique. Shortly thereafter, the Slytherin house symbol was changed from the snake to a fluffy white bunny, Ravenclaw got Peeves as their house ghost, and Divination became a required course.

Could it be that, because Harry defeated Voldemort so quickly, Draco Malfoy never had his chance at redemption? Every evil enterprise he attempted failed spectacularly – although many were more amused than anything at his attempt to kill Ron Weasley by shoving mashed potatoes up his nose. He's currently spending 50 to life in Azkaban for selling "fat free" ice cream to witches that wasn't fat free at all. He's lucky to be alive.

Could it be in the way that the staff, upon hearing from a laughing Severus Snape about Dumbledore's Great Plan, lost all respect for the old man? When the truth came out shortly after Harry left Hogwarts, Albus to encouraged to resign. To this day, he can be seen pushing a broom in his brother's pub muttering to himself …"with Merlin as my witness, I thought Horcruxes were real".

Could it be in the horrific fate the Dursleys suffered? Um … probably not.

Personally, I think it's in making you, the innocent reader, imagine Harry explaining pornography to (over-eager, slightly sadistic, obsessive) Dobby. _'No, he won't have to punish himself for not fixing the copier ... thanks for telling me some purebloods shout that too, but he's not really her daddy ... no, I don't think that's what Mistress Malfoy expected you to do when she told you to clean the pool.'_ Because that imagine is in your head now, isn't it?

**** end chapter ****

**NOTES:**

Credit where credit is due – Thanks to the SNL 'Land Shark' skit. Also, there's a sentence or two that are almost word-for-word from a website that I think was quoting a person reading aloud from the Harry Potter books. Alas! A true Harry Potter fan wouldn't need me to point out which ones, so I won't bother, 'cause I know you're the biggest, bestest Harry Potter fan alive.


	11. Christmas at the Burrow

Unlike the other chapters, this isn't a 'what if' idea. This little nugget fits right into the canon universe.

Death treats, bad press, ailing mentor … oh, and spending the holidays with the girl you fancy, whose boyfriend is a friend of yours. Let's face it, as stressed as Harry was, something was bound to happen. Something accidental. Something evil.

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**My gift to you: Christmas at the Burrow **

_the missing scene from _A Very Frosty Christmas, _HBP Chapter 16_

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Harry was sitting alone in the kitchen of the Burrow.

Not very exciting. But then again, it's hard to be exciting at 3:15 in the morning. Because, quite honestly, not much happens at 3:15 in the morning in the Wizarding world. Even if it's Christmas morning. Very boring, those wizards. Aside from the occasional rampaging Death Eater, they were all no doubt tucked in their beds, visions of sugarplums dancing across tables and gobbling up naughty children playing in their heads. Boring, and oh-so-strange.

Except for Harry, who was seated at the comfortable old kitchen table in his sleep clothes – a worn t-shirt and a pair of Dudley's old sleep pants – noticing for the first time that said pants' faded Tottenham Spurs' cockerel designs could easily be mistaken for a magical cockatrice. They were said to be part snake, those cockatrice, and he could talk to snakes, which meant he could talk to them. He could command them like Riddle commanded the basilisk; train them to eat from his hand like some domesticated … cockatrice. He should quit Hogwarts and start a cockatrice farm. Harry's Hand-Raised Cocks, he'd call it.

Blinking, he picked up his mug of hot cocoa and gave it a sniff. When he'd first stumbled into the kitchen and had looked for the pot to boil some water in, he'd found what he assumed was Mrs. Weasley's hidden stash of booze (although Fleur was also suspect). There was everything from Firewhisky (which Harry had a healthy fear of, thanks to Seamus catching all – oh yes, _all_ – his body hair on fire while carelessly pouring some from his bottle) and Gilly Tonic (sounded too fishy for Harry's taste) to Elder Wine (girly!) and something called Absinthe, which according to the label contained wormwood, which he recognized from Potions Class, which is why he'd decided to add a few caps full to his cocoa. After all, he'd yet to be poisoned in Potions Class – that couldn't be specifically traced back to a Death Eater stooge or his professor, that is.

He gave the mug a swirl and sniffed again. Yep, still smelled like chocolate with just a touch of Draught of Living Death. The Absinthe must be more potent than he'd realized. It had to be, if he thought people would be interested in his preferred method of cock raising. Shrugging, he took another gulp of the cocoa, thinking to himself that slight inebriation didn't change reality. And in reality, he was _this close_ to calling it done and leaving the magical world. In his current state (he was on his third mug, after all), Harry couldn't be certain how close _this close_ really was, but it had to be somewhere between the amount of empty space between Dudley's ears and the distance between Draco Malfoy's nose and Snape's arse, and that was pretty bleeding close.

Or, at least, it would have been until this year, when Malfoy decided to show the world his evil twitness. Which reminded Harry how everyone – Mr. Weasley, the man formerly known as Professor Lupin, his closest and dearest friend Hermione, Ron, Crookshanks (and wasn't that one a surprise – Crookshanks was normally a very good judge of character), the lady with the snack cart on the Hogwarts Express, whoever wrote the Dear Ronan column for the Daily Prophet, and at least two of the gnomes he'd caught yesterday – refused to see the obvious.

Draco Malfoy was Death Eater scum and no one cared but him. Exclamation point! Sure, he didn't have photographic evidence, but he had his gut feeling and lots of circumstantial stuff and let's not forget, Malfoy's dad is practically orgasmic in his devotion to Voldemort and Malfoy himself is a wanker. And that whole Unbreakable Vow business, how could anyone not see the evil in that? Maybe he should sit back and just let Blondie do whatever evil he's doing. Just watch as Voldemort takes over Hogwarts. That would teach everyone. Hogwarts … teach … that's funny stuff, that is.

Rubbing his forehead, Harry tried to get himself under control. Perhaps he should give the Gilly Tonic a try next mug. Madam Hooch drinks Gilly Tonic, so how potent could it be?

He wondered if he'd reached the 'plastered' stage, assuming the use of the term plastered had nothing to do with carpentry. What was it Sirius liked to say … if a carpenter drank on the job, would he be a plastered plasterer? ... no; well yes, he did say that freakishly often (the man loved his puns), but the quote Harry was looking for was 'getting plastered is all well and good until someone loses an eye.' Closing his eyes – to block out the light and certainly not to protect them from getting lost – he thought over his past day, trying to remember what had led to him being awake, at 3:34 in the morning, drinking by his lonesome.

First there had been kitchen duty, which Ron had hated but which was no big deal in Harry's opinion. At least they'd get to eat the food they were preparing. True, they could have done without the twins' teasing – but the twins weren't being the twins if they weren't causing trouble somehow and since it was mostly Ron they were harassing … well, they did come up with some pretty funny stuff. Harry snorted as he recalled the hard time the two had given Ron over his relationship with Lavender Brown. Then he snorted again as he spared a moment to wonder if her middle name was Scarlett.

Listening to Molly Weasley singing along with Celestine Warbeck had been entertaining. Learning about Fenrir Greyback had not. Finding out the Half Blood Prince was really, really old – like 65 or something, right up there with Filch and Dumbledore – had been a let down. But wrapping Ron's present had been amusing.

See, Harry had recently discovered, quite by accident, that Ron goes crazy for a wrapped gift. It didn't matter how poorly wrapped, who it was from, or, apparently, if it smelled strongly of rotten fish and diesel fuel. Ron would rip the gift open in a frenzy only matched by his pudding eating ability, provided you gave it a little jiggle when you held it out. (The gift, not the pudding, although probably that, too.) Colin had not been amused when Ron had torn apart his special owl order potion ingredients.

So, purely in the name of science and not at all because Ron should not have been snogging Lavender on Harry's bed (he sleeps in that bed), he'd devised an experiment. He'd wrapped last year's History of Magic textbook in gaudy Slytherin-themed paper, complete with snakeskin ribbon, and then sprinkled Thestral urine on it. (Even if he lived to the rip old age of 179 and forgot all about magic and how to read and even his own name, he'd never forget Hagrid telling him how he'd collected _that._)

Tomorrow, after everyone had opened the regular gifts, he and the twins would corner Ron upstairs, where he'd give the gift a little shake and see what happened. He had 5 galleons on Ron being so excited he wouldn't notice it was a book; Fred thought he'd be so excited he'd piss himself. George thought someone might lose an eye. Hermione, surprising everyone, had her gold on Ron thumping his foot like a dog does when you scratch the right spot behind its ear.

So where had his day gone wrong? Oh … right … he'd been on his way to his room and he'd overheard Ginny telling Hermione something about Dean's hands. He thankfully didn't catch any details, but there was lots of giggling involved. Two girls giggling. It was like Snape smiling or Voldemort asking if you like the color green – nothing good could come from it.

He'd tossed and turned in bed that night – this night – earlier tonight – whatever – and tried to concentrate on his lessons about Tom Riddle and solving the mystery that is Why No One Believed Him About Malfoy, but for some reason his mind kept drifting to curses that permanently removed body parts and wondering if Bellatrix was crazy enough to believe Dean was Harry with a really good tan. Not that he didn't like Dean; he just suddenly found himself wanting the boy to fall into a very deep hole and get buried alive there.

He was starting to suspect that Hermione suspected he might possibly fancy Ginny Weasley. And when Hermione suspected something – her suspicion that Harry was wrong about Malfoy aside – it was generally true. On the other hand, Harry suspecting something – again, his suspicions about Malfoy aside, as those were dead on – was usually only right about 50% of the time. So there was a 50% chance that there was a 95% probability that he fancied Ginny, leaving him with about a 2.5% chance of not getting his privates hexed off by several angry red heads.

That's right. Percentages and probabilities drove many a student to the bottle.

Which lead to him, being here, drinking this, thinking that.

Deciding he couldn't possibly handle the long division in his current state, he drained the rest of his drink, cleaned up the evidence, conveniently picked up his wand, and left the kitchen.

It was as his foot hit the first step that the sound of the floo flaring to life made his body freeze, his blood run cold, and several other cold-temperature-related clichés occur.

As he stood there, not sure what to do, a dreamy voice, not unlike Luna's except that it was much deeper and more sinister, quietly said…

"Ah, Mister Potter. I've been trying to get to you for years. I have something very special for you."

Perhaps it was the adrenaline, or perhaps the booze, or the stress of his life finally pushing him to his breaking point. Very likely, it was a combination of all. Regardless, Harry whipped around, wand held fiercely before him, intending to protect himself, his friends and pseudo-family, and the girl he would lose his virginity to (if he'd correctly calculated the probability).

"Avada Kedavra," he spit out, putting all his anger and fear and paranoia into the spell. The intruder was taken by complete surprise, no doubt thinking Harry 'where's my white hat' Potter wasn't capable of such an action. He fell backward, very much dead.

Harry couldn't believe it – he'd killed his first bona fide Death Eater. In fact, now that the adrenaline was wearing off, he found it hard to believe, so he cautiously stepped close and kicked the dead body in the ribs.

It rocked a bit, but otherwise there was no reaction. The man was truly dead.

Harry took a good look at him, wondering which of Voldemort's followers he'd managed to bag, only to realize he didn't recognize the face. And, come to think of it, didn't Death Eaters generally wear black? This guy was in red and white robes … or rather, red robes with fancy white trim. And where those jingle bells threaded in his beard?

Suddenly more afraid than when he'd faced the basilisk, Harry took in the rest of the scene. The man's portly mid-section. The list of names just sticking out of a pocket. The gaily wrapped gifts in the sack beside him.

Moving from scared to full blown panic, Harry spent about 3 seconds wondering if he should get someone. Then 15 seconds wondering if he could hide this somehow. Then 5 seconds wondering if there were any gifts for him in that bag … 5 seconds telling himself that was an inappropriate thought …7 arguing back they would just go to waste otherwise … 2 worried that someone might come downstairs and see this … and finally decided he needed to get rid of the body. After he checked the bag for gifts.

The magic was remarkably easy, but then he always performed best when under pressure. Two quick spells had the gifts sorted and placed either under the tree or back in the bag. There seemed more for Harry than anyone else, but then, he had many Christmases to make up for … oh, that must have been what he meant.

Then came the moment of truth. And with pristine clarity, he remembered the emotionless voice of Barty Crouch Jr. telling Dumbledore that he'd transfigured his father's dead body into a bone and buried it. This magic, too, was remarkably easy. Where the body had been was a small Christmas ornament, a freakishly perfect facsimile of Father Christmas. He picked it up carefully and reached all the way to the back of the tree, where he hung it next to an ugly painted walnut that was supposed to be a snitch that Ron had made when he was ten.

There was only one last thing to do, Harry realized with regret. Voldemort could get into his mind, not to mention Snape, Dumbledore, and (with 87% certainty) Lupin. Goodbye, cockatrice farm. Adios, Operation Dean-as-Harry Visits Cousin Trixie. For the safety of their world, as it would be impossible for him to vanquish the dark lord from inside Azkaban, it all had to go. Entering the loo he dropped his pants and took a seat on the throne, put his wand to his head and whispered "_Obliviate_."

**** end chapter ****

So, a little Christmas story I couldn't get finished in time to post so I left it sit. Then today I thought to myself – what the heck. Post the Christmas story. So I did. Boring but true story.

Speaking of strange but true – Absinthe is considered the most potent alcoholic drink in production today. One of its ingredients really is Wormwood, which of course Snape kindly introduced us to during Harry's very first Potions class as a key ingredient in Draught of Living Death. Knowing that, I'm starting to wonder what that Draught really does.

Merry reviews, as always, are encouraged.


	12. A Fitting Ending

In which Snape wants to give Harry his memories, and Harry just wants to be loved. It's evil at its most accidental.

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**The Next Chapter: A Fitting End**

As the battle of Hogwarts (from that day forward referred to as The Battle of Hogwarts, though the capitalization was silent) raged on, our trio – confidently brilliant Hermione Granger, cautiously loyal Ron Weasley, and insanely heroic Harry Potter – made their way through the tunnel to the Shrieking Shack, hoping to find and destroy Voldemort's last horcrux, his evil snake Nagini.

Hermione was muttering spells to herself as she mentally debated the best way to skin the snake.

Every so often, Harry would tip his head sideways and tap hard on his ear. Having earlier taken a quick swim in the demented mind of I Am Lord Voldemort, he was trying to metaphorically clean the filth out of his head in a not-so-metaphoric manner.

Seeing this, Ron almost questioned his friend's heroic sanity, but decided after his whole freak-out in the tent he should stay supportive, so he instead reached forward and helpfully gave Harry's head a few whacks.

The sound of Hermione shushing them cut short Harry's retaliation. By this point, they were near the end of the tunnel and it seemed prudent to be cautious lest he walk into the stack of oddly placed boxes he didn't recall seeing the last time he was here.

Holding her hand up in a halting motion, Hermione cautioned, "The way is blocked by a stack of oddly placed boxes."

"Someone moving in," Ron quietly asked Harry, but not quiet enough to avoid a deathly glare from Hermione, who wondered why she was the only one who understood the need for stealth when sneaking up on Voldemort.

"What's odd about the stack," a perplexed Harry asked. "It's a very solid stack –"

This is the point where Ron phased out, recalling an entirely different kind of solid stack. Specifically, one belonging to a certain Lavender Brown. He only barely managed to keep himself from grinning like a loon, though he did drool slightly.

"—largest on the bottom and smallest at the top," Harry had continued, not noticing (or perhaps misinterpreting) Ron's drool. "Nice pyramid shape that supports the weight load and each box seems to be clearly labeled, presumably to make finding something easier. Over all, I'd say it's a very nice stack. Certainly one Aunt Petunia would deem worthy of half a sandwich or at least some lettuce with ketchup."

At the last possible second, Hermione swallowed her snippy reply, hating how Harry would casually mention instances of his child abuse as if he were commenting on the weather. She could never bring herself to call him on his stupidity when he did so; it was like telling a starving man he was ugly, too. "I said oddly _placed_," she said as politely as she could manage. "As in, why would someone stack boxes in an abandoned building in a spot that just happens to perfectly block a supposedly hidden passageway? It's suspicious, don't you think?"

Put like that, both boys quickly agreed it was suspicious. Then Harry pointed out, and Hermione reluctantly agreed, that the who and the why of the box placement was irrelevant. It only mattered that the boxes existed and they made perfect cover should the invisibility cloak slip. Glad to have put the great box debate behind them, Hermione was selected to be their lookout, and she grasped the cloak tightly to her as she poked her head around the boxes.

"He's not alone," she whispered after checking out the room, causing Harry to cautiously move so he could take a peek for himself.

"It's Snape," Harry spit out once he'd identified Voldemort's companion. "They're blathering on about Dumbledore's wand. I think Tom thinks Snape is it's master."

"Oh my," Hermione squeaked. "That means he's probably going to kill the Professor so he can become the wand's master."

"Yeah, that'd be a shame," Ron sarcastically replied, "but is the snake there?"

Taking another peek, Harry confirmed that Nagini was in the room. "Floating in some weird magical cocoon, actually. Do you think any spells would get to her while she's in it?" That last part, of course, was aimed exclusively at Hermione.

"Most probably wouldn't, given the magic used is probably very dark, coupled with the protective nature of Horcruxes," she reasoned, but that didn't stop her from proceeding to name every cutting or blasting spell taught at Hogwarts, along with reasons that each would fail. "Fiendfyre would work, I suppose, but given what happened earlier, I think its best we not mess with it. Although … but no; burning down all of Hogsmeade probably isn't worth it, plus there's no guarantee Riddle would tragically die trying to save his beloved pet. But Sectumsempra is rather dark so it might do and Harry proved last year it's easy enough to use. Oh, and the Killing Curse would work, of course, if you think you can handle it."

"What's that supposed to mean?" an offended Harry snapped back.

"Down boy," Hermione barked back, "I'm not questioning your manhood. Just your ability to use hate to kill when your super power is supposed to be love."

Once again, Harry regretted sharing that particular theory with Hermione. He hoped she realized now was not the time to transfigure his robes into a red cape and his jeans into tights.

"What about Snape," Ron asked.

"I don't love Snape," Harry shot back, even as Hermione explained, "Of course he hates enough to use it."

"I meant, what should we do about Snape," Ron corrected. A cry of surprised pain quickly followed by a loud thumping noise stopped any further discussion. Fearing what he would find, Harry slowly and cautiously looked around the boxes just in time to see Voldemort exit through the room's main door. Nagini was already gone (based on the snake-shaped trail of blood across the floor) and Snape was lying on the floor, bleeding from his neck.

"Great! We missed our chance!" Harry kicked the nearest box for effect. Hermione consoled him with a hand on his shoulder while Ron stepped into the room for a better look at Snape finally getting what he deserved.

"Is he dead?" Hermione called over.

Ron looked down at Snape, who was glaring back. "That snake's got pretty powerful venom and _this_ snake got a bigger dose than Dad did. I don't see how he could survive."

Snape kicked Ron's leg and tried to call out, but hadn't taken into account the gaping neck wound which prevented anything beyond a pitiful gurgle that was hardly louder than a mouse's squeak.

From their place behind the boxes (where she was healing Harry's broken toes) Hermione ordered Ron. "Look to see if he has any anti-venom with him. Any smart Death Eater wouldn't leave home without it."

"This much blood, I doubt it would help," Ron replied as he watched Snape grasping his own throat, probably indicating he could talk if Ron would just heal his wound. Hearing that Hermione was done healing Harry, he moved so his body would block the others' view of Snape's upper half. "Just another casualty of war."

Harry took a look at Snape's motionless boots, looking so much like every other pair of motionless footwear he'd seen lying around Hogwarts today, and was overcome by it all. Emotion poured off him as he quietly spoke. "I wonder how history will remember this; a bloody battle at a children's school. For those of us who survive? Or for the senseless deaths of war – not necessarily Snape, mind you, killing Dumbledore and all – but generally speaking, senseless deaths."

There was an eerie groan in the room, quickly drown out by Ron's coughing fit.

Shaking his head sadly, Harry made a vow. "These senseless deaths will have meaning. They will be senseful. Those who have died have purchased time for us, the living, so that we may continue the fight and win the war. Even as I stand here and speak, we have friends fighting Death Eaters older and smarter than themselves, hoping their deaths somehow bring us closer to victory. Some are fighting dark creatures stronger and more powerful than themselves, knowing they will be torn limb from limb but carrying on anyway. We've personally witnessed one such soul find the strength to fight the path his parents put him on, trying to find redemption, even though I know it will never be his."

Ron and Hermione shared a look – Ron's side asking if their friend had finally lost it and Hermione's side replying, 'why yes, I believe he has, and you still have drool on your chin'.

Harry stood, tall and proud, speaking as if addressing a hall full of admirers instead of his two best friends and assumed-dead Professor. "In a way, everyone has a Voldemort to face. For some, little or no magical ability might be their Voldemort. For others, a lack of education might be their Voldemort. For us, Vodemort is a big, dangerous wizard who wants to kill us and enslave our kind. But as sure as the others can defeat their own personal Voldemorts, I will defeat our Voldemort, who happens to be the actual Voldemort!"

The only response to his speech was another groan, this one louder than the last and seemingly coming from the floor.

"Ron, what's that noise?"

"Nothing," he insisted as he kicked an old rug over Snape's body.

"AAAAAHH … not dead," came a pitiful, muffled voice.

Harry looked to Hermione, who looked to Ron, who looked from Hermione to Harry, who looked at Ron then back to Hermione, who looked briefly at the ceiling as she silently muttered, "boys", before looking to Harry, who was now looking at her and shrugging. Ron looked away from the two of them and began whistling.

With a sigh, Harry told Hermione, "It's your turn. I got that Death Eater."

"I got the other one," Hermione countered.

"I stopped the dementors."

"We all did that," Hermione corrected, "plus I was the one that saved us earlier."

"I saved us before that," Harry argued back. "And I was right about Malfoy last year."

"Yes but I … oh forget it … cauldron, parchment, penknife?"

Harry agreed, and after losing a quick two-out-of-three (he always picked penknife – and Hermione knew it), he moved around Ron and knelt down. Carefully pulling the rug away, he saw beady black eyes glaring back at him. "Snape?"

Snape had one bloody hand wrapped around his own throat, holding it together enough to speak. "Potter …," a frail voice mumbled so softly it was hard to hear, "look at me."

"Loo cat me?" he repeated. "Like a litter box? Do you, er, need to pee?"

"Potter … Harry … look into my eyes," he intoned, and this time he spoke much clearer, much more forcefully, despite still speaking very softly.

Harry pulled back, a peculiar look on his face. "Er … you know you sound like someone from one of those telly films my Aunt always watched, right? Look, you're next sentence isn't going to be 'I will always love you', is it?"

Snape's eyes bugged out and he began coughing uncontrollably. "Look … _cough_ … at … me," he ground out.

Before Harry could respond, Ron leaned over his friends' shoulder. "Say now, Snape, exactly when did your obsession with Harry start? 'Cause Fred always said you had a hard-on for Harry, only I always thought that it was just an expression, 'ya know … but now I'm wondering if he'd noticed things the rest of us missed."

"It's wrong no matter when it started," Hermione explained as she, too, leaned forward to speak to the dying man. "What with you being so much older and a teacher to boot. The Muggle world has laws against such behavior. I shudder when I think of all the time Harry had to spend alone with you. Granted … Harry did look rather fetching in his bathing suit for the Second Task and, yes, when he's determined to see something through his eyes smolder in a way that makes a girl's knickers damp – what, Ron, I heard some girls saying it! – but you've actually been obsessing on him since his first day here, when he was still scrawny and innocent and just plain _young_. That's creepy in any world."

Harry, unable to find his voice, nodded his head in agreement.

"When this is all over, we'll have to report your obsession to the proper authorities," Hermione assured the man who was only trying to save the world. "It will completely destroy what little is left of your reputation, but I hope you can understand. What if you come back as a ghost and they hire you to teach again? There is precedent, after all, and we can't have a pedophile ghost on staff. Think of the innocent children. And the other ghosts."

"And the innocent ghost children," Ron helpfully supplied.

Harry nodded again, showing that he, too, wanted to protect the innocent ghost children. "Look, Professor … I'm flattered, I really am. I'm sure most guys my age would be … er …"

"So grossed out they'd toss their biscuits?" Ron muttered.

"Would be honored," Harry valiantly carried on, though anyone looking at his face would notice it was scrunched in a manner reminiscent of someone who's just stepped in dragon dung, "t o … ah … have you fancy them. So, while I can't honestly say your feeling are, in any of the thousands of possible realities theorized to exist, returned, because let's be honest, even if I was gay, I could do so much better than you … but I can still appreciate your feelings for me. Not to sound immodest, but I am a pretty good catch. Your love for me, unwanted and psychologically troubling as it may be, will not go undeserved."

"Potter, you nitwit," Snape barked out, his anger beating his nagging cough into submission. "I'm neither obsessed … nor in love … with you. I am … and always have been … in love with your mother."

"Eww!" cried two voices. One was followed by a gagging sound.

Harry, however, was too busy being affronted to truly grasp the icky-ness of Snape's declaration. "So, I'm what?" he shouted, either forgetting or not caring that there might be Death Eaters milling about. "Just some sick replacement for my dead mother? You don't even love me for me? Can't anyone love me for me?"

"I love you for you, Harry," Ron confessed as he placed a reassuring hand on Harry's shoulder. A discrete cough caused him to turn his attention to Hermione and add, "In a manly, brotherly way! You don't hear me trying to get him to gaze deeply into _my_ eyes, do you?"

"Wasting … time," Snape hissed, "just … take them."

"Take what? Your eyes? Why would I want those?"

"Human eyes have several uses, including ocular repair potions, memory enhancers, and rituals to make your enemies' pets infertile," Hermione explained, taking perverse pleasure in knowing Snape couldn't take points for the know-it-all answer.

Ron waved off Hermione's list. "You can also use them as fishing bait and the twins like to bob them in punch on Halloween."

"The memories … you useless twits," Snape tried to shout, but it came out as more of a harsh whisper. Knowing his time was very near, he released the vital memories Harry would need so he could understand and sacrifice himself. Plus a few just for shock value. After all, he still didn't like the brat.

Noticing the stream of memories, Ron shouted, "Eww, his brains are leaking."

Hermione, however, understood what was happening and picked up a piece of broken pottery, transforming it into a mason jar and handing it to Harry, who used it to scoop up the memories. By the time they were done, Snape had gone still.

Using her wand to check, Hermione declared, "He's gone."

Harry quickly checked Snape's pockets – "he might have something we can use" – while Ron snatched up Snape's wand as a keepsake.

Hermione allowed them their moment of triumph because, really, Snape had made all their lives hell for six years. Finally, as the boys were dividing up his silver coins, she decided they'd had their fun. "We should get moving. He's only given you an hour and Merlin knows how much we've already wasted here." The boys were quick to agree, neither too keen on spending more time with Snape's corpse.

As the three made their way onto the school grounds, Hermione put a hand on Harry's arm to get his attention. When he stopped and turned to her, he found a very concerned look on her face.

"Harry … are you going to view those memories?" She motioned toward the glass jar in his hand, as if he didn't know what memories she was talking about. Harry, however, felt this wasn't the appropriate time for sarcasm, so he let it slide.

"We're kinda in the middle of a war right now," he replied, "Don't really have time for a trip down memory lane, do I? Maybe after all the fighting is done and I've had time to eat, bathe, sleep, and snog Ginny senseless. If even then. Honestly, I don't particularly want to – would you? Why? Do you think I should?"

"Submerse yourself in the memories of Severus Snape, one time Death Eater, sadistic bastard who systematically abused school children, and apparent pedophile? I'd worry about you mentally if you wanted to."

Hermione's faith in him brought a smile to Harry's face, but the moment was ruined by Ron pointing out, "She's right, you know. Snape was a right bastard. For all we know those might be memories designed to incapacitate you in some fashion. Like memories of himself wanking at his desk while you're in detention – hey, maybe that's why he kept those glass jars behind his desk."

And on that happy note, the trio silently decided to continue on their way. But Ron's words replayed themselves in Harry's mind and the jar suddenly felt very heavy and evil in a way even a Horcrux couldn't match, so he made a detour to Hagrid's partially burned out hut, the others following his lead. Once inside, he quickly found a half empty bottle of Ogden's finest. Before Hermione could lecture him on the proper time to drink, he had poured a healthy portion of the whiskey into the jar of memories. He gave the jar a good shake, causing the silver memory strings to break apart and take on a burgundy color. Then, for good measure, he went to the sink and poured the concoction down the drain.

"To Snape … long may he rot," Ron offered as a toast before taking a gulp of the remaining whiskey.

He passed the bottle to Hermione, who surprised the boys by taking a super-sized chug and saying, "to Snape … may he spend eternity in Satan's hair salon."

"To Snape," Harry began when it was his turn, "he was a rat bastard when he lived, and he died pitifully."

"That's not really a toast, Harry," Hermione chided.

"Close enough," he insisted as he took an extra sip. "Right then. We've got to plan how we're going to kill the snake before my hour's up. Anyone have any ideas?"

***end chapter***

First, let me apologize in advance. The next chapter is … well … silly comes to mind, only its so much more than just silly. It's my first (and probably last) attempt at a crossover, and features a character I'm willing to bet has never been included in the Harry Potter world before plus a few others I could fit in. You'll either laugh yourself silly or want to find me and hit me over the head with your laptop. Possibly both.

About this chapter. I'd like to thank Sonny Day for letting me paraphrase his brilliantly inspirational speech for Harry.

Now, personally, I've always wondered … Harry believes he only needs to kill the snake then he can kill Voldemort. He finds Voldemort and the snake suspiciously separated from everyone else. Yet, instead of taking advantage of such a fortuitous situation he hides until both are safely gone then decides to have a death bed chit-chat with a man he hates. I don't normally cuss, but WTF?


	13. The Map

AND NOW, FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT …

We've already established that horcruxes are not the only evil which can be performed accidentally. As the saying goes, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Well, here at fanfiction dot net, evil accidentally happens every day with those best of intentions.

Picture this:

Someone is flipping channels, hoping to find one of the Harry Potter movies but gets engrossed in another movie instead. Eureka!

The next thing you know, a new story pops up … _Harry Potter's on vacation on Amity Island, where unbeknownst to him, escaped Death Eater Antonin Dolohov has made his home in his animagus form – a Great White Shark. Can Harry help Officer Brody and Richard Dreyfuss before it's too late?_

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

.

.

**The Map**

"Bloody hell!"

"Harry – language," Hermione reflexively corrected, not even looking up from the _Quantum Arithmancy for Fun and Profit_ magazine she was perusing.

"Sorry, but … look at the map. There's something wrong with it!"

With a huff, she dropped her magazine and pulled the map closer for inspection. "Oh my. It does look rather … simplistic."

"Simplistic? Looks like a cranky five-year-old drew it, it does," Ron insisted, butting into the conversation.

"Do you think this is part of its enchantments?" Hermione asked, intrigued by the change. "Some kind of joke?"

Looking unconvinced, Harry took back the map (covertly wiping Hermione's dusty finger prints off in the process) and held it out in front of him. "Come on Padfoot. Show me where Malfoy is."

For just a second the map went blank, then a series of three pictures appeared on its surface. As each glowed in succession, a childish voice told them, "First you have to go up the Tricky Staircase … then you have to pass the Not Nice Painting … then you're at the Hidden Room!"

The three stared stupidly at the map. While Ron began guessing which painting qualified as 'not nice', Harry leaned very close to its surface and whispered "I said I was sorry for using that other map. You know you're the only map for me. But you only show Hogwarts and I needed to see the London Underground and was _not_ going to ask to see Dumbledore's knee again. I'll never do it again, baby, I swear."

Hermione, meanwhile, had gone back to studying the surface of the map. Perplexed, she rubbed the corner between her fingers. Surprised by the feel, she ripped it fully from Harry's hands (and just in time, too, for he looked like he was about to give it a kiss) and held it up to the light. "This isn't parchment. It's ordinary Muggle copy paper. Harry, this isn't the Marauder's Map at all."

"Then what is it," Ron wondered as he took it from her, giving it a good sniff.

Before Harry could give an appropriately sarcastic response a mysterious voice, which seemed to be emanating from the map itself, rang out. And not just any voice; no, it was an overly happy singing voice much like the one Dudley would use when he'd sing 'you're in trou-ble'.

"I'm the map, I'm the map, I'm the map, I'm the map … I'm … the … MAP!"

"Hey, that's kinda catchy," Ron said, bobbing his head to the beat. Then, under his breath, he could be heard singing "I'm the map, I'm the map …"

"Oh poopy!," Harry exclaimed, mindful of his language. "They must have gotten mixed up when we were in Hogsmeade this morning. Remember, Ron? I stopped to help that little Hispanic girl with her torn backpack. I asked her what she was doing outside Hogwarts and she said she was following a map."

"Yeah, now I remember. Nutter, that one. She kept talking about finding her friend Boots' missing lunch pail."

"Only 'Boots' was just this ratty pair of old red puddlejumpers," Harry explained for Hermione's benefit. "There wasn't even anyone in them."

"It was really creepy. She'd turn to the boots and say stuff like," – and as he quoted her Ron made his voice go squeaky high – " 'do you think we should go left or go right' and then she'd wait a few seconds and then shout 'me too!' That was one strange kid."

"Maybe we should have done more to help her," Harry realized, his hero-complex shifting into high gear. "Like get her to a healer. Poor thing was all alone. I hope she's alright."

_**Meanwhile**_

"That must be the Whomping Willow, Boots," said a cute little Latina girl to a muddy pair of red rubber boots. "Swiper's bound to be close, so watch out." Pulling her trusty Map from her purple Backpack, she opened the paper, not noticing it was much larger than it should have been. "Map, do we need to go around the Whomping Willow?"

However, instead of a voice singing out the answer, words appears. Normally, they would have been hard for such a young girl to read, but in addition to being quite the explorer, Dora was an exceptionally bright child.

'_Mister Padfoot would suggest going under is faster.'_  
>'<em>Mister Prongs would counter that a broom is best.'<em>

"A broom? That's strange advice, don't you think, Boots? But I suppose all trees like to look neat and tidy, and sweeping up those leaves should be easy enough. It's not like Map has ever been wrong before."

_**Meanwhile**_

The author fearlessly continues typing, clearly not familiar with the phrase 'quit while you're ahead.'

_**Meanwhile**_

"Draco, I stole Potter's map like you asked."

"Excellent, Pinky. With this last tool, my plans are complete. Tonight, we take over the world – er, Hogwarts!"

_**Meanwhile**_

Antonin Dolohov looked down at the fox – that was rubbing his front paws in glee and wearing a mask – noticing it's resemblance to his Animagus form. Perhaps he could escape life-long servitude to a deranged lunatic after all. It would be easy enough to kill the fox and take it's place, becoming the lovable nemesis of a crazy little girl who, apparently, liked to sweep up leaves under magical trees. No danger in that, right? He was about to make his move when a shriek filled the air, and he turned to see the little girl's limp body being tossed between two particularly arm-like limbs of the Whomping Willow.

Oh well, there was always Regulus – or should he say, _Regina_ Black's way. Last he heard, she was making a very good living at a burlesque club in Vegas. He could do that; everyone told him he had the legs of a dancer. But first, he'd have to perfect his bubblehead charm to protect himself from all the methane gas. After all, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

_**Meanwhile**_

"Mister Malfoy," Snape sneered, "you have exactly eight seconds to explain why all of Slytherin House is singing that infernal song or I am taking twelve thousand points and your grandchildren will be born serving detention. Do you hear me?"

"I'm the map, I'm the map, I'm the map, I'm the map …"

"Azkaban has to be better than this – Avada Kedavra."

_**Meanwhile**_

"It worked just like I predicted," Ron announced, complete with fist pump, "and we even managed to get The Map back from the Slytherins. What's next, Harry?"

"Now that we know it works, I say we send a special letter to our good friend Voldemort." It might sound like a nice gesture, but Harry's grin could only be described as evil.

"I told you that song was catchy," Ron replied with a matching evil grin.

"Yes, well … you still have to be the one to explain it to Hermione if she catches us."

_**Meanwhile**_

The Author laughs so hard she snorts soda up her nose and possibly pees her pants. "I made … _Ron_ … the smart one."

_**Meanwhile**_

Albus Dumbledore was worried, but he hid it well behind his clown-striped robes, red rubber nose, and sequined glove that covered his crusty hand. He already had a trusted Auror looking into the mysterious death of Draco Malfoy and (thanks to Severus' extremely sudden decision to retire to fulfill his lifelong dream of building his own batcave) Professor Flitwick was looking into the strange curse that had every Slytherin singing a strangely short song, over and over and over and over again. The worst evil of all: they sang loudly and off key. Cunning and artsy rarely went hand-in-hand.

Then, just as he thought things couldn't get worse (he really needed to stop thinking that), Filch came to tell him that someone had stolen and broken his favorite push broom, abandoning it under the Whomping Willow. Oh, and there was dead body there, too. And he was not cleaning that mess, as his contract clearly specified he was only responsible for dead bodies _inside_ the castle.

Albus had to keep this under wraps. Not the cleaning (one of Hagrid's pets would have that gone in jiffy), the death. Not to worry, he knew just the man to sniff out the truth.

"Remus," he began as Minerva showed the former Professor in, "I'll get right to the point. We found Dora's dead and broken body at the base of the Whomping Willow next to one of Filch's brooms. I need you to investigate."

Shocked was the best word to describe Remus. No, devastated. Or maybe unhinged. He slumped against the window sill, clutching his hair in his hands and pulling on it. "Not Dora," he shrieked. "Not my little doe-eyed beauty," he howled. "Life is not worth living without her."

He cleared his throat and stood straight, holding one hand over his heart and the other forward, as if reaching for something in the distance. "Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide! Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on the dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark!"

Minerva looked at her former colleague skeptically. "Are you quoting Shakespeare? I don't think that qualifies as a crossover."

"Hush Minerva," Albus said, "I want to see where he's going with this. I do love the theatre."

"Here's to my love!" Remus dramatically called out. Then he drank the fast-acting poison specifically geared to werewolves that Snape had conveniently handed him on his way out of the castle. _'In case the mood strikes,' _he'd whispered.

"O true apothecary! Thy drugs are quick." Remus fell dramatically to the floor, very much dead.

Albus stretched his body forward to better see the ground in front of his desk, upon which were the earthly remains of Remus Lupin. "Ah, perhaps I should have been more clear. Dora Marquez, a young Latina girl, was found dead this morning."

"Oh really, Albus," Minerva sighed as she used her foot to push Remus' arm out of her way, "how many times have I told you, you have to be specific. Now, about that exchange student from America …"

_**Meanwhile**_

Hedwig flew swiftly into the dimly light room and dropped her special delivery on Voldemort's head, and a letter on his lap, before shooting out of there like a bat out of hell.

"Someone has sent me a letter," Voldemort mused as he absently rubbed his bald head.

"A letter, my Lord? What is it?" questioned his mindless minion.

"It's a written missive conveying thoughts from one individual to another, you idiot, but that's not important right now. Wait a minute … who are you?"

"I'm filling in for Dolohov, my Lord. He called in dead. I'm Ted Striker."

That name sounded suspiciously Muggle. "Come again?"

"Ted Striker. I flew a plane during the war, then I was a missionary, then a taxi driver, but now I'm an airline pilot."

Voldemort looked up from the white goo he'd been examining on his hand. "That doesn't sound evil enough to be a Death Eater."

"Did you miss the part where I'm a commercial airline pilot? Last week I delayed a flight for 3 hours because I couldn't get a knot out of my shoelace."

That sounded at least on par with Macnair's last plot to take over the magical world by killing all the post owls, though after that his details were rather fuzzy. "Right … well … I have this letter. Perhaps I shall just open it?"

"I was going to suggest making a pterodactyl out of it," Ted cheerfully replied, "but reading it's good too."

"Nagini, lunch," Voldemort called out, ending Ted's brief stint as a Death Eater. Elaine was going to be so upset he'd lost another job.

Confident no one would dare send him a cursed letter, Lord Voldemort opened the envelope to find a crudely drawn map that appeared to have been made by either Crabbe or Goyle. Or possibly both together, as he didn't think either one of them could have managed this much detail on their own.

"What is this?" he muttered to himself.

"I'm the map, I'm the map …"

_**Meanwhile**_

Lucius Malfoy was reading the Daily Prophet across from his lovely wife, Narcissa, in their overly opulent Sitting Room, when he suddenly put down his paper and announced, "I see dead people."

"Well of course you do," she calmly replied, not even looking up from her crossword puzzle (_3 across … half-blood famous for his anti-Muggle stance … 13 letters, begins with L, ends with silent T_). "You do like to kill people, and when you do you're bound to see them dead, now aren't you?"

"No, darling, I meant – "

"I mean," she carried on, not paying him any attention, "you wouldn't be a very effective killer if you didn't see dead people, would you? It's simple logic. If they aren't dead, you didn't kill them."

"No, sweetest – "

"Is this about that Weasley girl again," she asked, finally looking at her husband. "Because I've explained to you again and again, you keep seeing her because she _didn't_ die in the Chamber of Secrets. Your plan failed. Utterly and completely. Much like your short-lived career as an inspirational motivator."

"Never mind," he said with a disheartened sigh, waving off the spirits of their beloved son Draco, a cute little Latina girl, and Haley Joel Osment's career.

_**Meanwhile**_

The letter was short and to the point. _'Potter, I surrender. I give up. I'll disband my Death Eaters and retire to Isla Sorna to raise Velociraptors. Or jump into an active volcano. Anything you want, just take it back!'_

_**Meanwhile**_

The Author picks up a stick, locates the nearest dead horse, and beats it.  
>No, I don't know why there was a dead horse just lying around.<br>No, you ask.

In an alternate universe, Harrysaurus Rex lifts his head and cries an anguished "whoooooooooooo" on behalf of his horsy brethren everywhere.

In a galaxy far, far away, Obi-Wan Kenobi feels a disturbance in the force. Or it could just be last night's dinner. He knew he shouldn't have had the fish.

_**Meanwhile**_

"Hey, you there, in the dark corner!" shouted Auror Nymphadora Tonks, known to most as simply Tonks to but to her beloved Remus as 'Dora', a nickname that, in hindsight, she secretly wishes she's thought of years ago. It made much more sense than the use of her gender-neutral last name, not to mention would sound better when she was married … Tonks Lupin … eww.

"I'm Auror Tonks and this is Buffy, an exchange student. We're investigating the strange death of Draco Malfoy and I was wondering … say, aren't you Cedric Diggory?"

"No," he said in a voice that clearly implied he's answered this question before. "I'm Edward. I'm a vampire."

"Are you sure?" she asked, looking him over critically. "You look just like Cedric Diggory. Only less cute and more in need of a bath."

"I'm a vampire," he whined. "See my pale skin?"

"Well, you were killed a couple years ago, Cedric, so I wouldn't expect you to be looking your best," she reasoned. "Are you an inferius? We've had reports He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named-You-Know-Who-Because-Maybe-I-Don't-Know-Who was making them."

"I'm not a zombie," he practically shouted.

"Inferius, not zombie," she corrected. "There is a difference, you know. Zombies are American and eat people whereas Inferi are European and tear people to pieces. But they would never eat them. It's uncouth."

"Well I'm neither of those. My name is Edward and I'm a vampire. A vampire, I tell you. You should fear me, not mock me. Why" … _foot stomp_ … "isn't"… _foot stomp_ … "anyone" … _foot stomp_ … "afraid of me?"

"Well, it could be that whole 'you're supposed to be a bloodthirsty killer but instead you glitter' thing. Who's ever been afraid of things that go glitter in the night? I know I haven't. Besides, I'm more a werewolf kinda girl so vampires don't really do anything for me … speaking of which, have you seen my hot, steamy wolf-man around? He went to see the Headmaster a while ago and he never came back."

But instead of answering, the glittery boy gurgled.

Turning from the bloody mess now slumped on the ground to her companion, Tonks sighed. "Buffy, I _told_ you to put that away. Exchange students are only allowed to kill Death Eaters or, if secretly evil, Gryffindors. Dumbledore is not going to be happy. But on the plus side, now I don't have to tell Amos Diggory his son wasn't dead after all but rather was turned into a glittery vampire. That would have been an awkward conversation."

_**Meanwhile**_

"That's Voldemort done, Ron," Harry said, putting away the signed, notarized, and duly recorded Blood Contract he'd received from his former nemesis, the newly retired Lord Voldemort, who was now contractually obligated to call himself Isa the Iguana-man. "What's next?"

"We clean up the Ministry by sending The Map to Fudge. Then, I overheard Dad talking about this cursed Muggle videotape he recently confiscated. Any Muggle who watches it dies seven days later. I say we liberate it and send it to your Aunt and Uncle."

"Brilliant, Ron. Remind me again why people think Hermione's the smart one."

_**Meanwhile**_

The Author sits back, proud of his work. This is the Best. Story. Ever. He's only going to write crossovers from now on. In fact, he's going to write that Harry Potter/Jaws crossover. It'll be brilliant!

_knock knock_

"Who is it?"

"Candygram."

"I do love candy." _footstep …footstep … footstep … door creaking open_ "Hey, you're not a Candygram. You're that landshahhhhhh"

_**Meanwhile**_

As the door shut, Professor Potter looked his student in the eye and said, "you're just going to have to trust me on this one, Wendell. Crossovers are evil."

**** meanwhile, end chapter ****

Sadly, I would probably read a Harry Potter/Jaws story. I'm a sucker for a movie about sharks eating people.

The Shakespeare quote, if you're the kind of person who actually cares about stuff like that, is from Romeo's death scene. I didn't actually keep count of all the crossover characters/elements in this story, but there had to be a ton, right? So I win the prize for most crossovers in one fanfiction, right? There is a prize, right?

If any part of this made you laugh, please consider reviewing so I know I'm not the only insane person out there. Bonus points if you can make me laugh and/or snort soda up my nose. Points deducted if I pee my pants, but triple word score if I manage to pee someone else's pants.


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